


Greener Grass

by aralias



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Bodyswap, Depression, M/M, Recovery, Shepard has to do the exposition today, Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son, Vampire angst, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22777981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: Sometimes I try not to look at Baz just because I know that if I do, he might look at me – and he’ll find me out. Realise who he’s with and change his mind.Sometimes I don’t look at him because I know that I’m not going to be able to see him after I break up with him, and I have to get used to it.But today, it’s just because I don’t want to look at myself. Because somehow (thanks to another kind of goblin also taking against me) I’m in Baz’s body. And not in the scary way that I think he was trying to push for a few months ago. In an even more scary way where I actuallyamhim. And he’s me, which is much worse.--A 'Wayward Son' bodyswap - about vampires, communication, and learning to like yourself.A story for everyone who wished the second book had been about getting past trauma as well as living with it.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 168
Kudos: 303





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is an AU in two ways:  
> 1\. It is a bodyswap.  
> 2\. Agatha went to Burning Lad and was never captured by the Next Blood. Simon and Baz find a different reason to hunt them down. 
> 
> This fic takes place just after chapter 41.
> 
> If you've read my fic ['The Mage's Heir'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203467/chapters/32740836), you'll recognise a lot of the themes and ideas in this. But this one has Shepard - and a bodyswap. What more do you want?

**BAZ**

The campsite is still partly lit at night, so it’s harder to see the stars now. But I _can_ still see them. Twinkling above the truck bed as the four of us settle down to sleep. (Crowley, I hope it doesn’t rain – neither Bunce nor I are up to casting a weatherisation spell that lasts while we sleep, and we do both need to sleep.)

They’re the same stars that I saw while lying next to Simon on the way here. The same stars that were shining down on us when he let me touch him.

We’re not touching now. Bunce is lying between us with Shepard on my other side since Simon’s wings tend to pop in the night – but I’m allowing myself to hope. That things are getting better. That they might get back to normal (assuming we ever _had_ a normal to get back to). That we might get Simon’s magic back.

That’s probably too much to hope for (any of it). I’m not sure, I’m not used to hoping for anything. Why would I? Good things don’t really happen to me.

Simon’s the only really good thing that has ever happened to me. So good that I still find it hard to believe he _is_ mine. (The alternative is much more plausible. If Simon broke up with me, I’d be devastated. And I’d fight it – of course, I’d fight it. But I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s the kind of thing I expect from my painful existence.)

So, no. I don’t expect to get him back. Simon – the way he was in those precious few months after he moved in with Penelope. I don’t _expect_ it, and I probably don’t deserve it, but I do want it. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. More even than I wanted Simon before I had him, because now I know what I have to lose. I want it to be possible. For me to keep the best thing about my life.

And I definitely don’t expect to get Simon’s magic back.

It’s gone, like the magic around Pitch Manor. (Whatever Martin Bunce said about restoration ecology, I think my entire family have accepted we’re not going back to that particular house. At some point, in a few years, I might even suggest selling it. Or opening it to the public. Not yet - it’s still too raw – but eventually.) Simon’s magic is gone. Leaving behind someone who still looks like my boyfriend. And who sometimes – like he did tonight – still _acts_ like my boyfriend used to. Who still smiles at me, sometimes, like I mean something to him. But who is definitely missing … something. There’s an emptiness in him where the magic used to be that I don’t know how to fill.

I tell Simon all the time that it’s _him_ I love. That it doesn’t matter to me whether he has magic. And it doesn’t. I don’t need Simon to have magic, it was never _magic_ that I loved about him. (Fortunate really, as he was always terrible at it.) It’s him, I think. He’s the one who needs the magic.

He’s been the Chosen One for so long that now he doesn’t know who he is without it. Obviously, I thought we might work that out together – but that’s because I’m selfish. I’ve always _been_ selfish. I shouldn’t have tried to fill the gap magic left inside him with me. That was never going to work, even if I wasn’t a self-absorbed, emotionally crippled vampire. 

I don’t need Simon to define himself through me. I don’t want him to.

I just want him to be happy.

When we first heard about the Next Blood, what they were doing (or trying to), I thought it was a scam. You can’t _create_ magic where there isn’t any, it’s just not possible. At least, I didn’t think it was.

Now I’m not so sure. There have been enough independent witnesses – Margaret the dragon, and the water spirit we met tonight, among others – who are worried. Who think it might happen.

It’s possible they’re just paranoid (I can certainly relate to that), but what if they aren’t? What if it _could_ happen?

And if it could – if it _can_ happen, if you can gift someone new magic – why wouldn’t it happen to Simon?

Before Simon, the World of Mages had never had a magickal orphan before. Someone born from the Normal world. We’d never had a Chosen One. We’d never had anyone give up their magic to fix a hole in the magickal atmosphere. Simon has always made the impossible possible. He’s always been the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known.

What if we could fix him? Give him back to himself, the way he was. We have to take that chance.

As much as I hate America (and Americans) in general, and this road-trip very much in particular, I have to hand it to Bunce. She was right about Simon needing to get out of the flat and off the sofa – away from the cider and the two of us hovering around him, trying to make things better but not knowing how. He’s been happier here than I’ve seen him for months.

And now – now there’s this. An actual chance to make things right, for Simon. Obviously, I’m not delighted that it means we have to ask _vampires_ for help – two lots of them. (Although the second lot are different, apparently. They don’t drink; they transfuse – at least, according to a pixie Shepard met in Chicago – but it’s still human blood and they still kidnap people to get it, so they aren’t that different, if you ask me. And the first lot aren’t different at all.) But I was willing to walk into a nest of vampires to find out what happened to my mother; I’d walk into two more to help Simon.

I'd walk into a million.

I’d give up my humanity. I’d give up my own magic, whatever it took.

Bunce is asleep now, so is Shepard – I can hear them breathing deeply, either side of me. Simon isn’t, I don’t think. Although, if I listen carefully, I _can_ pick out the sound of his heart, beating slowly. The same familiar beat I’ve fallen asleep listening to over hundreds of nights at Watford. The sound of Simon Snow alive in the world.

I imagine him looking up at the stars too. (Is he thinking about me? The trip over here? What did it mean for him? Did it make a difference?) And I let myself hope, even though I know it’s unrealistic.

I let myself hope everything is going to end well.

**SIMON**

Everything has gone to complete shit and it not even eight o’clock yet.

We’re still on the campsite, five miles outside of Vegas. I’m covered in sand and I’m hungry _and_ thirsty – _really_ thirsty – and I’m not sure yet whether that’s our worst problem.

The only good thing about today, as far as I can see, is that Shepard seems to know exactly what’s going on.

“Oh yeah,” he says happily. “This can definitely happen. It’s the Pukwudgie.”

“The what?” I say, but Penny and Baz both say “ _Fuck”_ at almost the same time (Penny – thoughtfully; Baz – murderously) so I’m guessing it’s something proper magicians know about.

Either that or it’s something I should have learned in Watford, but my brain decided I didn’t need anymore. (To be fair, if it wasn’t for this trip, it would have been right. It’s not as if I’ve been running into dark creatures at Tesco.) (Other than Baz, obviously. And he’s usually just there to pick up milk, nothing dangerous.)

“Pukwudgie,” Shepard says, still grinning. (I suppose this is the sort of stuff he lives for.) “I’m guessing you don’t have them in England.”

I shake my head, trying not to think about how I’ve never noticed before, but Shepard smells a lot like roast lamb. (Shepherd, sheep, lamb – is that related? Probably not.)

“Well, they’re kind of like goblins.”

“We have goblins,” I say quickly. I think I’m trying to seem relevant (and distract myself from smelling Shepard), although I regret it as soon as I say it, because my voice sounds weird. (Also, familiar, but mostly just weird. The vowels are all wrong.) “They’re trying to kill me.”

Shepard’s eyes go wide – like his day just keeps getting better and better. “Why’re goblins trying to kill you?”

“None of your business,” Penelope snaps. (There’s a cut on her knee just below her sock. It smells sharply of vinegar, and it makes me want to eat chips _soaked_ in vinegar.)

“Okay,” Shepard says – and he’s completely unphased. Still just as upbeat as ever. “Well, like I said – they’re _like_ goblins, except not as handsome. And I guess they’re probably not trying to kill you, Simon. Also, their magic is a _little_ different.”

Penny sighs. “They’re tricksters, not just illusionists. They have almost unlimited power as long as it’s being used to cause mischief.”

“And this is a classic gag,” Shepard says. “Classic pukwudgie trickery. It’s definitely them. We must have invaded their territory. Never heard of them in Vegas, though. They must be migrating.”

“You’ll have to update the forums,” Baz says coldly. (His voice sounds weird too. And even more familiar.) (And fuck me, he smells good. Like steak. Bacon. Roast potatoes soaked in dripping.)

Even without looking at Baz, I can tell that both he and Penelope are finding Shepard’s enthusiasm hard to handle right now. But I’m still finding it helpful. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not panicking mostly _because_ Shepard isn’t. He’s dealt with this before and he thinks it’s fine. That means it probably _is_ fine.

(Also, if I’ve learned anything over eight years of fighting dark creatures, it’s that you have to hold your nerve. There’s no point giving up because then you _are_ dead.)

I just have to not breathe in very much until this is all over. (Fortunately, we’re still outside – there’s a lot of air circulating.)

I also have to not look at Baz. I’ve been trying not to look at him too much since I woke up this morning on the wrong side of Penny in the truck.

Sometimes I try not to look at Baz just because I know that if I do, he might look at me – and he’ll find me out. Realise who he’s with and change his mind.

Sometimes I don’t look at him because I know that I’m not going to be able to see him after I break up with him, and I have to get used to it.

But today, it’s just because I don’t want to look at myself. Because somehow (thanks to another kind of goblin _also_ taking against me) I’m in Baz’s body. And not in the scary way that I think he was trying to push for a few months ago. In an even more scary way where I actually _am_ him. And he’s me, which is much worse.

I already knew I looked fucking terrible and being on the outside of myself doesn’t make it any better. It’s actually worse than I thought because I stopped making eye-contact with myself in mirrors a while ago. I’ve barely seen myself in months.

I mean, I knew I was getting fat because all the trousers Baz bought for me after Watford stopped fitting right. But I really am. And my hair’s far too long – I look like I’m in Slade.

My wings popped in the night (or maybe Baz’s wings did – I’m not sure when the changeover happened. I just know that when I got up to piss at six o’clock, it was Baz’s cock that I pulled out of my jeans. I almost had a heart-attack.) (Not because I’d seen his cock – it’s actually very nice – just because I _really_ wasn’t expecting it). My tail’s out too – and I can see it flicking around madly like it does when I’m really upset.

Which means that Baz is really upset.

I hate that Baz is upset, but I do understand. I mean, why wouldn’t he be?

 _I’d_ be upset if I’d lumbered myself with a complete fuck-up: a freaky half-dragon, washed-up ex-magician who can’t fit into his own trousers. And I’d be even more upset if I woke up one day, having been the most beautiful and perfect man alive, and found that now I _was_ that complete fuck-up. (Although Baz – being perfect – is probably more worried about me, than he is about himself. Even though I just inherited a flawless profile, a mansion, and a bright future in experimental economics, whatever the fuck that is.)

I want to comfort him – let him know that I’m all right (as long as I get some food soon), but I don’t know how. We don't really do that - talk about ourselves, anymore. Also, even if I did know what to say, which I don't, Penny and Shepard are still watching us and it’d be awkward.

“So, what do we do?” Penny says. “Find them and get them to reverse the spell?”

Shepard shakes his head. “It usually wears off after a couple days – it could take us that long to catch one. We should get on with the plan. Assuming you guys still want to do this before you catch your flight.”

“Yeah. Of course, we do,” Penny says quickly. “Right, Baz?”

"A couple of _days?”_ Baz says instead, ignoring the question.

“We just have to send Simon instead of Baz,” Shepard continues. “I bet he’s just as good at getting information out of vampires as Baz is. Right, Simon?”

I shrug, which is easier now I don’t have my wings.

Now that Baz has them, I mean. And I have his perfectly normal (if pretty well-muscled) shoulders.

I have Baz’s arms too. His long fingers. Baz’s flat stomach. Baz’s long legs and his broken nose and his long, poncey hair.

The only thing I _don’t_ have of Baz’s is his magic. Somehow, he kept that when we got switched. Penny says it’s because magic is part of your soul (“ _See_ ,” I want to say to Baz. _“I knew you had one”),_ so it’d make sense if it went with his consciousness. 

I think I should probably be upset about that (not about Baz having a soul. I’d be delighted about that – _if_ I’d ever doubted it.) About the magic. It feels like everyone expects me to be upset – that the opportunity to be magic again was so close and I still missed out on it. (Typical.) Baz even apologised to me.

But actually, I’m just glad that Baz doesn’t have to find out what it feels like. To lose his magic. It was bad enough when it happened to me and I wasn’t ever any good at using it. I never loved it like Baz does.

I do _want_ to be magic again – I think. But I think more than anything, I want it because, if I’m magic, Baz might fall in love with me again. And I won’t be holding him back, like I am now. 

I know he and Penny have this plan to try and get the vampires of California to re-magic me. It probably won't work, I think we all know that, but I’m OK with that. I don’t mind trying. For Baz.

I also think it’ll be good to meet some other vampires. Other vampires who don’t want to kill us, I mean. We’ve met the other kind. ( _Vegan_ vampires – can you imagine?) It’s like we’re on 'Who do you think you are?' Off to meet Baz’s distant relatives. First stop the Katherine Hotel, to meet the vampire Old Families, and then on to meet the vegans. It’s dead exciting when you think about it. They can probably tell him loads about himself.

And I know Baz doesn’t need to find himself. I know he worked through all his problems last year and it’s me who’s the fuck up, who needs to be put back together, but I don’t want this trip just to be about me. If Baz can get something out of it too then we’re winning.

The main reason that I said yes to the plan, though, is that with Agatha off at some festival, we didn’t have a really good reason to go to California. And without a really good reason (like a one-in-a-lifetime chance of getting Simon’s magic back), Penny and Baz would probably have made us go home again by now.

I don’t want to go home yet.

I like being out here. I feel free. Like I can breathe. It’s like – while I’m out here, just me and the people I love most in the world – my past isn’t smothering me. And I can just get on with being me. Do the things I want to do.

I kissed Baz last night – which is something I want to do practically every minute of every day and which, for some fucking ridiculous reason, I _can’t_ do back home. It was amazing. Just having him under me, feeling his hands in my hair.

I still want to kiss him now. Not because I’m a narcissist – I don’t love myself (although, if I was still seeing my therapist, she’d probably tell me I should try).

I can still tell he’s Baz, whatever he looks like. The way he stands. The way he talks. The way he tried to cast half a dozen spells to switch us back (before Shepard worked out it was goblins) and made the air smell like gunpower, even drowning out the rich buttery smell of his skin.

So yeah – obviously, I’m not upset I don’t have Baz’s magic. That I didn’t take the thing that’s most important to him from the person who’s most important to me. I’m relieved. It’s the only good thing about this whole mess.

“I know it sucks,” Shepard is saying now, “but look on the bright side. At least you guys know each other. And at least you’re both guys.”

Penelope sighs. “He has got a point – any other combination _would_ have been worse.”

“Easy for you to say,” Baz snarls. “You’re not the one with a new pair of fangs, a thirst for blood, and a sun allergy.”

“Yeah,” I say. “About that. Before we get back into the truck, I should probably find some sort of animal to kill first – because I really, really want to eat all of you right now.”

**BAZ**

This probably isn’t the worst thing that could have happened to us. ( _Probably_ – the jury’s still out.) Right now, it certainly feels like it, though.

I’ve told Simon what it feels like to be thirsty – what it feels like to be a vampire – before. (It was practically our first date. I set everything on fire, we kissed, and he bombarded me with questions about vampire physiology – not exactly the stuff of my fervent gay daydreams, but I like to think we made it work.)

Simon’s always claimed that it doesn’t bother him. I’ve always assumed that meant he’s never _really_ thought about it. It’s why I try not to let him watch me feed. Because it’s probably harder to not think about your boyfriend sucking blood out of rodents if you have to regularly see him doing it – even if you’re exceptional at not thinking about things, like Simon is.

I don’t think even Simon will be able to not think about what’s about to happen, though.

He and I are lurking a few feet just outside the edge of the campsite, waiting for a bird or a snake or _something_ to respond to my hunting spell. (Bunce and Shepard are tactfully waiting inside the truck.) The area around Las Vegas is a desert wasteland. There’s nothing here, nothing living anyway – hence the spell to pull anything idiotic enough to wander past down towards us. I’ve cast **Nothing to see here** because there are tourists everywhere.

If I was still in my own body, I’d _wait._ Until we reached civilisation (because where there’s civilisation, there’s rats). But Simon isn’t used to waiting – he whines whenever he misses a normal meal – and he isn’t used to being a vampire. He might not be able to stop himself. I don’t fancy dying with my own teeth in my neck.

The spell _should_ work, though – that’s not what I’m worried about.

My magic is still mine and it’s still working – and thank Crowley for that. If Simon had it, he’d probably have summoned the entire state to watch us do this. Even he agrees this definitely isn’t the time to swap an unpractised magician for an experienced one. It’s far too dangerous. When the two of us realised that _I_ was still magic (and that Simon wasn’t), he told me it was for the best. He didn’t even look that disappointed – because he’s Simon and he’s a hero. Unlike some of us, he’ll always put the good of the group ahead of himself. It’s one of the things I love most about him.

I’m not even worried about how repulsed Simon will feel once he has his teeth in a prairie dog. Although it _is_ repulsive. (Do they even have prairie dogs in this part of America? I haven’t seen – or eaten – any.)

“Do you— I mean, do I always smell like this to you?” Simon asks.

I don’t look at him. ( _This_ is exactly what I was worried about.)

“Yes.”

“Merlin,” Simon says.

I know I’ve told him, so it’s not as though it’s a betrayal. It shouldn’t even be a _surprise._ But now he’s breathing in the scent that haunts my nightmares. (And, unfortunately, my daydreams.) It must now be obvious that however relaxed I might seem to be, whenever we’re watching a movie or lying in bed, whenever I’m kissing him, the vampire part of my brain is still obsessed with the idea biting down. Into him. Filling my mouth with his blood.

Even once all this is over, even once we’re back in our own bodies, he won’t be able to forget. He’ll know, forever. He’ll know what I really am. How I really think about him.

It’s strange, actually. Being next to Simon, breathing normally, and not feeling like I also want to eat him. Being human. Being Simon.

I should probably try and enjoy it. (He’s never let me take off his trousers before – but I’ll have to at this rate. I can’t wear the same trousers for _two days_ ) (and I’ve been fantasising about Simon’s hands on me for years and now they’re in my lap. It would be easy to … well, do anything with them. Put them _anywhere_ ). But of course, I can’t enjoy it.

Even if I did feel comfortable taking advantage of Simon’s body without Simon in it – which I very much don’t – I know the horror of being in mine. I know that with every second Simon will be less able to think of me as anything other than the monster I am.

A large brown bird is swooping down towards us. It’s drawn by the spell, but we still have to catch it, which is the part I really hate. Simon doesn’t flinch, though. His hand (or rather, my hand) snaps out and pulls the bird from the sky. He buries my teeth its throat, drains it, and throws its body behind him.

“So cool,” he says, grinning at me. “I always knew you were fast, but you really are. I just grabbed it from the air.”

I shrug, helplessly.

( _Is_ it cool, Simon? I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.)

As I stand there, he catches three more birds the same way. A small pile of their bodies builds up at our feet. My wings are fluttering like mad and my tail – Simon’s tail – keeps banging against his leg, I can’t seem to keep control of the bloody thing.

Eventually, Simon has to grab it with his free hand (which is a sensation I wasn’t expecting. Not bad, just very, very strange.) He holds onto it while he finishes. Which is bad – I only came with him because I thought he might need my help, I didn’t want to _watch._ But Simon hasn’t held my hand for months and this is – I don’t know. Something.

Anyway, it keeps me from leaving, his cool fingers around my tail.

Once he’s done, Simon wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand and lets go of me.

“Right,” he says. “Okay. I feel better now. Not as murder-y.”

He sounds completely unphased, like we've just gone to McDonalds. I have no idea whether he’s putting a brave face on it, for me – which would be so like him, heroic bastard – or whether for Simon this isn’t a problem. Whether for him, drinking the blood from a bird is the equivalent of drinking a Unicorn Frappuccino. Either option makes me feel pathetic, and no less disgusted. ( _Not as murder-y_ – thank you for that, Simon.)

“Let’s get back to the truck, then,” I tell him.

I don’t want to face Penelope and Shepard right now. I don’t want to face anyone right now – I feel like I’ve had to come out as a vampire all over again and I just want to sit in the dark alone, feeling sorry for myself.

But needs must, since I also don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this campsite. The truck is the only way out of here. (And at least there will probably be showers in Vegas.)

“Ride with me again?” Simon asks as it comes into view.

“Absolutely not.”

The hope on his face and the light in his eyes both die immediately. It makes him look far more like me than he did a moment ago. I hate it.

“We’re out of suncream,” I say carefully. “I need you to ride in the cab with the others, so that my skin doesn’t get burnt.”

It’s not the real reason and I think we both know it. Last night was different. Last night we were different people (literally). I can’t curl up with him in the back of this truck now – look up at the stars, and pretend we don’t have problems. That people like us – people like me, _vampires_ – get happy endings.

I can’t do it. I’ll probably still be able to smell the blood on his breath.

“Oh,” Simon says. “Right. Will you be okay back there?”

“ _You_ were.”

Simon looks unconvinced. “Yeah, but—”

“I’ll be fine, Snow.”

He gives me one last disappointed look and I almost change my mind. _(Don’t leave,_ I want to tell him. _It’s not you. I love you. It’s me. I can’t bear what I am.)_ But instead I just climb into the back.

**SIMON**

The vampire hotel is nuts. Everything is either black leather or the colour of fresh blood. And with my new vampire senses, I can smell actual fresh blood coming from all directions. Like how Waitrose tries to get you to come in by circulating the smell of baked bread near the entrance.

 _Come on in,_ the hotel seems to say. _You can eat people here._

I keep expecting to find torture equipment behind every door we go through – either that or a stack of bodies – but so far it’s just been corridors (black-patterned wallpaper and blood-red carpet), our hotel room, and a bathroom that Baz locked himself in for ten minutes as soon as we got here.

He left to try and buy us all some decent clothes soon after that, even though Shepard tried to tell him not to.

_“It’s not safe. The place is swarming with vampires.”_

_“I’ll deal with them,”_ Baz snarled, fire flaring in his hands like an example.

 _“Baz,”_ Penny protested. _“You’ll set off the fire alarms!”_

 _“You should definitely spell your wings off, if nothing else,”_ I said.

Baz scowled at me, but he did put the fire out and he did allow Penny to spell him. (The angel spell works on him too, which I’d have pointed out to him if he was in a better mood.)

Once Baz left, Penny and Shepard both told me I should have gone with him. Like a sort of vampire bodyguard. I told them that Baz was right – he can take care of himself. And that really, we should be worried for the vampires, since Baz didn’t look like he was going to hold back like he did in Omaha.

I didn’t say that I was pretty sure Baz wanted to be alone. That I recognise the snarling and the storming off – not from Baz (he’s usually pretty calm about everything). From me. Like less than a day in my body had already turned Baz _into_ me.

I don’t think that’s how it works, that my depression is part of my body and my mind is actually all right (although I guess it’s possible that my brain dumped a whole bunch of dodgy chemicals into my bloodstream before I left it and now Baz is dealing with them – I’ve never paid that much attention to the science-y part.). I think Baz is just in a bad place right now, like I usually am.

Weirdly, I feel better (even if it is a bit embarrassing to see my breakdowns from the outside). More like Baz probably does most of the time.

It’s probably just because I was feeling better already, thanks to this road-trip and being able to touch Baz for once. Also, Baz is so strong and graceful that it's hard not to enjoy doing regular things, like climbing into the truck. But I think I also feel better because Baz feels worse. Which sounds horrible, but it’s like he needs me to be strong right now, which makes it easier not to fall apart. Until now, I didn't have anything to be strong for - Baz and Penny were doing fine without me, and the World of Mages didn't need a Chosen One anymore. There didn't seem to be any point in looking after myself. 

I don’t _want_ to feel like this. I don’t want to drag Baz down just so I feel better about myself.

But that’s the kind of shit thinking that will just send me into a depression spiral again, so I push it away for now. Instead, I concentrate on getting clean and then enjoying the room service that Penny has ordered.

Or at least, I try to. Baz’s body doesn’t seem to need that much food. (Also – his tastebuds are different to mine. He doesn’t really like ketchup, which I didn’t know). I only eat half a steak sandwich before I’m full. I'm not going to lie - it's a disappointment. 

The good news, though, is that even though I’m trapped in the room with Penny and Shepard, I don’t feel like eating either of them either. Which means I guess I drank enough bird-blood earlier. So that’s something.

Eventually, Baz – the real Baz – comes back from his shopping trip. He looks hot. And flustered – which isn’t really a good look on me. Also, his wings are out, not vanished with the angel spell like they were when he left. Instead, they’re concealed under a different spell. Probably **Nothing to see here.** (I wonder how many people bumped into him on the way back to the hotel room; I wonder if Baz hated it as much as I do. He looks as though he did.)

“So how many vamps did you burn?” Shepard wants to know.

Baz dumps most of his bags on the bed.

“Not enough.” He hands me the final bag. “Snow. This is for you. To help you blend in with the locals.”

“And you should have this,” I say, swapping the bag for the other half of my sandwich. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

 _Which is probably why you’re in such a god-awful mood,_ I think - although I don’t actually say it. I don’t want Baz to kill me.

“I’m fine.”

“Eat it,” I say. “And the omelette. And the rest of Shepard’s burger _and_ his chips. I have a fast metabolism.”

Baz makes a face. “I really don’t think—”

“ _Eat_ ,” I say. “I’m going to change.”

I change in the bathroom, which means I can stare at Baz’s body as much as I want without anyone seeing.

There are shotgun scars on his chest, like paler freckles against his pale skin. I hate that he got hurt, but they’re actually beautiful. (Trust Baz to make even flesh wounds look good.) All of Baz is beautiful. His shoulders. His arms. And his thighs – fuck me. If I was Baz, I could probably write a poem about them. (Not that Baz would ever write a poem about his own thighs.) (Although he should. _Someone_ should, anyway, and it isn’t going to be me.)

When I got in here to shower the first time, I spent ages just looking at him naked. Staring at him – until Penny started banging on the door, telling me not to be such a pervert, and I realised she could hear that the water wasn’t running. So, then I _did_ get in the shower – and then I got out and stared at Baz all over again, only wetter.

It’s something I couldn’t do if Baz was in his own body – or maybe I could now, I don’t know – because then he’d want me to be naked too. Or he’d want to touch me. And he’d _definitely_ be able to see me looking at him and wanting him, and that would make him think I wanted to do something when actually I just wanted to look.

No, that’s a lie. I never just want to look.

I want to do all sorts of things to Baz. (When he’s actually in his body. It’s a bit different now and I don’t touch him anywhere beyond what I needed to get him clean.) I want to do everything to him.

But I don’t want to disappoint him if I change my mind. Or if I’m not good at it. Or if I just can’t do it at all. Not when Baz looks like – well, Baz and could essentially have anyone.

This time, at least I’ve seen Baz naked before, so I manage just a quick pervy glance at his chest before covering it with the pale-pink shirt Baz bought himself. The thighs are more of a problem, of course, but even so I manage to pull on the flowered trousers (I thought I was supposed to be dressed like a vampire; this is just dressing like Baz) and get out in less time than Baz usually spends in the bathroom every morning.

“Crowley. You look terrible,” Baz says when I emerge.

I shrug. “You chose it, mate.”

“Woah. Are you kidding?” Shepard says. “The suit is killer.”

“Not the suit,” Baz says witheringly. “The suit is perfect. It’s the hair – I can’t believe you let it _air_ dry, Snow.”

“And yet you lived with him for seven years,” Penny sing-songs.

They all seem to be in a better mood than when I left. Baz’s wings are properly gone again, and I notice he’s finished almost all the food we had left, even the scary-looking prawns. He’s even still pushing chips into his mouth in between scathing remarks, so I know he must have been starving.

“I think it looks nice wavy,” I say defensively and Baz nearly chokes on chips. Penny has to smack him on the back.

“ _Don’t_ try and fix it while I change,” he says warningly and disappears into the bathroom with another bag.

Half an hour later, he emerges in a new outfit – smart trousers and a white buttoned shirt. And he’s slicked his hair back and up, like he’s Danny Zuko. It’s all just really not me. I mean, I guess I can see why Baz likes it. But it looks like I’m at a fancy-dress party and I decided to go as a grown-up. Like someone with a _job._

I stare at Baz in absolute horror as he checks himself out in the mirror. (When he leans forward, I see just how tight his trousers are. How is he able to _move_?) He sees me watching him and frowns.

“I didn’t look while I was getting changed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Huh?” I say.

“I kept my eyes _shut_ ,” Baz says. “So, there’s no need to look quite so pissed off.”

“Oh,” I say. “No, it’s just – didn’t they have any t-shirts?”

Baz’s lip curls, which makes me look like a _mean_ grown-up. (A bit like the Mage, actually. Minus the moustache.) “Just get over here.”

I leave the bed where Shepard has been showing me lots of pictures of water sprites he’s met on his phone, and go and stand next to Baz at the mirror.

It’s strange – even though I didn’t want to eat Shepard at all, I kind of do still want to sink my teeth into Baz now I’m so close to him.

He just smells so _good_. The gel in his hair is pretty overpowering, but beneath that I can smell him. (Or maybe I mean, I can smell _me_ ) (this is all so fucked up). It’s delicious. Like how I feel about roast beef, except that I also want him to like it when I bite into him, which I don’t think I’ve ever thought about Sunday lunch before.

Baz told me earlier that this is what it’s like for him all the time. _All the time._

I always knew his self-control was good, but it really is.

He’s told me he wants to have sex with me before and I believe him. (I mean, he didn’t put me in those trousers because he _doesn’t_ like looking at my arse, did he?) We did try a few months ago, before I stopped him. I assume he still wants to do it – he’s a bloke, after all (even _I_ think about sex almost constantly; I just don’t act on it) – but he hasn’t pushed me since then. He’s holding himself back. He didn’t even look at me naked in the bathroom. Which I’m trying not to get offended about, because I did _tell_ him I wasn’t ready.

And I wasn’t.

But there’s something about Baz being desperate for me and stopping himself, though, that is just ridiculously hot. And it makes me ache with how much I love him.

It’s also really clear that Baz hasn’t stopped touching me because he doesn’t want to. He _definitely_ does. (I can’t believe he didn’t look.) It’s because of me. He’s doing it for me. Because I asked him not to.

Right now, Baz is running his fingers gently through my hair (well, his hair I guess) and spelling it straight in small chunks.

“This is nice,” I tell him. Because it is – the soft scratch of his fingernails against my scalp, the being close to him. “I like this.”

Baz smiles at me in the mirror – and for a second, it’s almost like nothing that weird is happening at all. (Besides my terrible hair.) It’s just him and me, standing together, smiling at each other. And I want him to know that I want him just as much as he wants me.

“I looked,” I tell Baz quietly. “Twice.”

**BAZ**

I thought shopping would calm me down. It didn’t.

I didn’t meet any vampires, but it turns out every shop in Vegas has a little tinkly bell above the door. Which meant that every time I tried to go into a new shop (and every time someone _else_ tried to enter a shop I was already in), Simon’s wings would burst free and try and take someone’s eye out.

I certainly have a new appreciation for how difficult life must be for Simon in London. _Is this a sign that I ought to be a more understanding boyfriend?_ I wondered as I knocked over three mannequins in Gucci. _Because I’m sorry, I’ve been trying – but clearly, I do need to try harder._

I got some truly foul looks from some of the shop assistants, although that could have just been because of the state of Simon’s trainers. One of them even tried to usher me outside, like I was Julia Roberts in ‘Pretty Woman’.

Once I gave up on **Every time a bell rings** and cast **Nothing to see here** on myself, I came back to that shop just to give that lady the finger. But, since she obviously took no notice of it, I can’t say it truly made me feel any better.

Nor did calling my aunt, which I tried after the mannequin incident, even though I had no idea what to say to her. _“Help, I’m not a vampire anymore and I’m worried my boyfriend doesn’t love me”_ probably wouldn't elicit the sympathy I was after. Anyway, she didn’t pick up.

The food helped, though – Simon was right.

And this does. Standing next to Simon, even if he is looking out of grey eyes rather than blue. Watching him try not to look too pleased with himself for getting to see me naked.

(Crowley, Simon’s seen me naked.) ( _Twice_. So presumably he liked what he saw.)

“I didn’t know we were allowed to look,” I say carefully – and I can see I’m blushing in the mirror, Simon’s blood rising easy to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” Simon says. He’s still biting his lip – in a way that would be completely adorable if it wasn’t _my_ lip (and is somehow still _slightly_ adorable, despite that). “Sorry.”

“You don’t look sorry.”

“I’m not.”

He’s grinning at me. And I think I might kiss him, even though he looks like me, and I’m sure that papers must be written on just this sort of disturbing subject.

Is that allowed, now?

I know I’m allowed to look at Simon naked – he practically told me I could. (Honestly, only my lingering sense of Pitch dignity has thus far prevented me from pulling away and taking him at his word.) But can I kiss him?

We kissed last night. But that was before all of _this._ Before the birds. Before I stormed out into Las Vegas in a very unattractive snit, without any regard for keeping Simon’s body alive. (I didn’t meet any vampires, and I’m sure I could have defended myself – but it was objectively idiotic, since I know exactly how tempting his throat is to those of us with fangs.)

If I were Simon, I wouldn’t want anything to do with me. With any vampires.

And I’d be furious that the ridiculous American goblins switched us _this_ particular morning, after one of us had already agreed to risk his life. It wasn’t Simon who agreed to that, it was me, but Simon’s the one who has to go through with it. 

_Instead,_ the reckless idiot is practically flirting with me. Which hasn’t happened … ever, possibly.

Simon doesn’t flirt. With me, or with anyone.

I do. Or at least, I did. Mostly with him.

I tease him; I make thinly veiled innuendoes; and send him long lingering looks across the rooms. Meanwhile, Simon just tends to tackle me if he wants me (which is why it’s so galling that he’s barely touched me for months).

I’m not sure what I’ve done (apart from look very good without my clothes on) to deserve Simon looking at me now from underneath my lowered lashes. One of his hands reaches out and tugs at the curl I left to spill over his forehead when I gelled his hair up.

“You made me look like John Travolta.”

I frown. “You don’t like John Travolta?”

I knew he didn’t like the shirt – which is ridiculous, because he looks lovely in something that actually fits for once – but I thought the hair was actually rather brilliant. I thought he’d love it … and possibly let me style like this for him again, once he was back in his own body.

“ _You_ like John Travolta,” Simon says, which is true. (I have three younger sisters – I’ve watched ‘Grease’ more times than I care to admit.) “Admit it, Baz.” He leans closer. “You dressed me up for yourself.”

Fuck. I didn’t think he’d realise that. Put like that, it sounds rather creepy. Although fortunately, it doesn’t sound as though Simon actually _minds_. He might even like it.

If I were Simon – 

Well, I suppose I _am_ Simon, for the moment. (And Simon’s me, which might explain why he keeps running my tongue over my teeth.) I don’t know if I’m allowed to kiss Simon, but I know that Simon can kiss me.

So I do.

I kiss him, tugging his head down towards me and opening my lips under his.

Perhaps I should say opening _his_ lips under _mine_ – but the way he kisses me back is classic Simon. Smashing his mouth into me, pressing me backwards into the mirror, like he’s going to ravish me right here in the middle of our shared hotel room. His mouth is cold – like mine must be, normally – and his arms around my waist are cold even though my shirt, but I can feel him heating up as he kisses me. 

It’s good – just as good as last night. As good as kissing Simon always is, even though he’s taller now and colder and smells like cedar instead of buttery popcorn. His arms close around my waist, tightly – so tightly I can barely breathe. He must be using my strength. It should be horrific, that strength – monstrous. But I don’t mind it right now. It makes me feel safe. Wanted.

Perhaps that’s how Simon feels. How I make Simon feel.

 _Have we fixed this?_ I wonder as I press myself into Simon. _Us?_

Was this all it took? Is it going to be easy now?

Or is this the beginning of the end? One last hurrah before Simon dumps me on the plane ride home, even if he does get his magic back?

I don’t know. It’s probably neither. It’s probably just a kiss – just another kiss in what might be a short or a long line of them. Not a solution or an ending.

Whatever it is, I can at least enjoy it. I wrap my arms around Simon's neck and try and lose myself him in – until Bunce's voice breaks the spell.

“Oh, thank Stevie – you’ve switched back.”

I push Simon away. He goes with some show of reluctance and I think about dragging him back, holding onto him – not letting him walk into the nest of vampires. (Who came up with this idiotic plan?) (Shepard, I think. Which explains a lot. Trust Simon and Bunce to find the only other person on the planet with absolutely no sense of danger.) But it’s a necessary step to reclaiming Simon’s magic, so we have to try. Simon has to try.

"Nope," Simon says.

“We haven’t switched back,” I agree in Simon’s voice.

Bunce frowns. “Okay. Well, that was really weird, then.”

“Think of it from my perspective,” Shepard says brightly. “I wasn’t even sure you guys were dating.”

“Well, we are,” Simon says firmly. “We are dating. He’s my boyfriend. Has been for the last two years.”

“Calm down, Snow – he gets the idea,” I say, but I can’t stop smiling.

**SIMON**

I take the lift up to the top floor, Baz’s phone on a call to Penelope in my pocket.

 _“Make sure you keep the speaker pointed_ towards _the vampires,”_ she told me (because she always likes to go over the plan at least three times to make sure I remember it.) _“And don’t let the vampires know you’re spying on them."_

 _“Thanks, Penny, I know,”_ I said. _“I have actually done surveillance work before.”_

(Admittedly, mostly on Baz. Who definitely knew I was spying on him. But only because I told him. And I only told him because I wanted to get his attention. I’m not exactly going to do that this time, am I? I’m not vampire-sexual. And even if I was, I wouldn’t leave Baz for a bunch of leather-obsessed Americans. I wasn’t even able to leave him for his own good.)

Baz’s advice was more general.

 _“Don’t take any unnecessary risks,”_ he told me, as he handed me the room key. His eyes were soft, like he wanted me to stay. _“Keep yourself safe.”_

 _“I’ll be all right,”_ I said. _“I know how to handle vampires.”_

 _“For snake’s sake, Simon,”_ Penelope said. “ _That better not have been an innuendo.”_

Shepard just told me to be as honest as possible. And then Penny told me not to be.

 _“Just find out where we can meet the Next Blood and get out,”_ Baz said, cutting them both off before they could start arguing.

I think he's just looking forward to this being over.

I can understand that. I wouldn’t want to be the one who had to wait behind, either.

There were a few other people in the lift when I got on (living people – I can definitely smell the difference), but they all got off at an earlier floor. It’s just me now. Me and a giant sheet of mirror reflecting Baz’s face back at me, like he’s here with me.

He looks nervous – although I guess that’s just me, really – so I try grinning at him. He grins back.

I should probably say something to him. (To the real Baz, listening down the phone. Not my reflection). I still haven’t said I love him. It’s never been the right time. (Is now the right time? I’d have to tell Shepard to put his hands over Penny’s ears to stop her listening in.) I do _want_ to tell him - And I will.

Later. 

When I get back. 

“I’ll be all right,” I say now, instead. 

Then the lift pings, the doors open, and I step out into the vampire penthouse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the difficult middle ~~book~~ chapter. Where things aren't going all that well for our heroes. Also, Lamb is there. Be warned.
> 
> Thank you Giishu for reading and making sure I remembered this was indeed a bodyswap <3

**SIMON**

It’s not hard to pretend to be Baz. These vampires don’t even know him. It’s not as though they’re going to catch me out for not knowing Baz’s favourite childhood toy (which I do actually know. It’s Paddington Bear – he told me when the second movie came out) or what his favourite colour is. (He doesn’t have one.) I just have to look as cool as possible. 

That isn’t hard either, since Baz always looks cool, even if he’s just standing there. But I get a martini at the bar and sip at it like I’m James Bond. And I try to look _bored._

That part _is_ hard, though, because there’s a lot to look at. This is nothing like the bar Baz and I went to in London. There are vampires in top hats and three-piece suits. Vampires in big puffy dresses (mostly women, although there’s a tall black man in a dress over the other side of the room, who I eventually have to stop staring at because I don’t think Baz needs me having a sexuality crisis while I’m in his body). Two girls are feeling each other up in a corner. (I try not to look at that, either.)

They all seem to know each other, which probably isn’t good for me, since I don’t know anyone, but maybe they’re all faking.

Agatha and I used to go to her mother’s Christmas party every year.

 _“Who was that?”_ I demanded once, after I’d gone to get her a drink and come back to find her flirting with some posh twat in a suit. (Not Baz, although they did look alike. One of his cousins, maybe – I don’t know.) (Baz – the real Baz – never went to Agatha’s parties, thank Merlin.)

 _“Honestly, Simon, I have no idea,”_ Agatha said. _“He just started talking to me.”_

Agatha and I were dating that year, although I think we were about to break up. And we’d both been drinking champagne even though we weren’t eighteen yet. I wasn’t exactly at my best.

_“And you just talked back, did you?”_

_“That’s what you do at parties.”_

Maybe it is. I wouldn’t know. (Baz would – I should have asked him before I came here.) Maybe that’s why I’ve never been very good at them.

“Hi,” I say to the nearest vampire – a tall bloke dressed like ship’s captain, except for his Mickey Mouse trainers. “Boring party, isn’t it?”

I’ve decided to combine Agatha’s advice with how I think Baz would behave. Talk to people – but let them know I’m not happy about it. My next move is going to be ask this guy if the Next Blood throw better gigs, but the vampire captain grins at me as if I’ve made a joke.

“Dull as ditchwater. Or at least, it was.” He’s smiling and I can see all his teeth. Not vampire teeth – classic American teeth. “And who are _you_?”

“Bunce,” I say. “Simon Bunce.” (Penny told me I could keep my first name.) “I’m looking for––”

“––a good time. I know, you said,” the guy says.

He reaches out for my face. It’s not an attack. At least, I don’t think it is. I think he’s just being friendly, but I’m still not really OK with being touched by my boyfriend. And I’m definitely not OK with anyone else touching me when I _am_ my boyfriend.

I knock his arm back with my left, catch his wrist and twist it behind his back. (Not very Baz, but it is a bit James Bond – fighting without spilling your drink – so I think it’s still all right.)

Like the vampires we fought in Omaha, this one is strong but has no idea how to use it. Also, he probably wasn’t expecting to engage in hand-to-hand combat in a Las Vegas penthouse. 

“Okay,” he says. “This isn’t my idea of a good time. But I can work with it.”

I think he’s serious. I think he thinks we’re flirting – or that _Baz_ is flirting with him. (And isn’t that thought enough to make me twist his arm a bit tighter?)

“What do you know about the Next Blood?” I say, keeping Baz’s voice level.

“Who?” the vampire says.

I know it’s a lie. ( _Probably_ a lie, anyway. You don’t say _who_ to a question like that unless you know what you’re talking about – I mean, the Next Blood could be anything.) But I’m still at a party. And more importantly, I’m still surrounded by vampires. I can’t exactly beat the truth out of him. Not if I want Baz to get out here in one piece.

Besides, as I next breathe in, I smell something different. Some _one_ different.

Someone alive.

I turn and see a girl running past me. About my age and almost as beautiful as Agatha (fortunately she’s one of the women in dresses, not one of the women in underwear). She’s laughing, but there’s a streak of red dripping down her neck. And she’s sort of stumbling, like she’s dizzy.

Like she’s already lost a lot of blood.

I can see some of the other vampires turning to look at her – like they’re going to finish what someone else has obviously started. So, I let go of the sea captain, hand him my drink, and grab the girl before they can get her. Then I hoist her up in my arms, holding her close to Baz’s chest.

“Back off,” I snap.

One of the vampires bares his teeth ( _these_ ones aren’t American teeth) and I snarl right back at him.

“I’m serious. Leave her alone.”

The girl laughs in my arms. “My hero.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I tell her as I start walking towards the door. “It’s not safe.”

I mean, I ate all those birds this morning, and it’s not like her blood smells anything like as delicious as Baz’s does (it’s more sweet than rich), and it’s still a struggle even for me not to try and bite her. I’m guessing the other vampires would’ve resisted a _lot_ less.

“I know,” the girl says. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

She doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s dreadful, though. She sounds like she’s enjoying it. I think that means she might be hypnotised (vampires can do that, right? Hypnotise people. Not that Baz ever has but it’s a vampire thing). Or she’s drunk.

Or maybe it’s just that when you’re Turning into a vampire, you don’t notice the world going to shit around you.

I set her down by the door, but she’s got her arms locked around my neck. When I try and disentangle her, she bats her eyelashes at me.

“Don’t you want your reward?”

I’m about to say I don’t know what she’s talking about, but then she tilts her neck to one side. That makes the general intention pretty obvious. I’m still not sure whether she wants me to bite her again or just lick her. Or something. (Would it be all right to lick her? Probably not. I know Baz wouldn’t. Even if she wasn’t a girl.)

“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m not hungry.”

Her hands are in my hair and she leans into me, like we’re going to kiss.

“Don’t be shy, handsome.”

“No,” I say firmly. “Thank you. I’ve got a boyfriend.”

She frowns. (It makes her look more like Agatha than ever.) “If you don’t want to bite me, why _did_ you save me?”

“Because it was the right thing to do,” I say – although it clearly _wasn’t_ , because the girl huffs and staggers back into the party.

I think about going after her, but she gets dragged into a group of vampires before I can get there. Someone had already bitten her anyway, which means it’s too late. I didn’t even save her.

There are other Normals here, too, I realise. I can smell them – maybe three of four. I probably can’t save them either. They’re already dead.

I just have to concentrate on what I’m here for.

And then come back and burn this whole place down after I’m done.

“Do you know the Next Blood?” I ask the bloke next to me. He doesn’t even shake his head, just walks away.

Another vampire asks me to dance – a lady this time. And I know I should say yes (even though I’m a terrible dancer). That it’s a good opportunity to talk to someone one-on-one where they can’t get away. But I really don’t like the way she looks at me _._ At _Baz._ Biting her lip and running her eyes down his body. I don’t think she wants to dance. And she definitely doesn’t want to talk.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m not that into dancing.”

Her mate (a thin woman with lots of make-up) smirks at her, like she’s won a bet. Then she smiles at me.

“Let me get you another drink, then.”

I’m beginning to think almost everyone here – vampire and Normal, male or female – fancies Baz.

And yeah, I get it. (Obviously.) He’s Baz. He’s handsomer than anyone else in the room. And he’s cool. And Americans like British accents, don’t they? That means Baz is probably even hotter than usual here – if possible.

I should probably use it. This. How handsome Baz is.

I should use it to try and get people to talk to me. (It’s _definitely_ what Bond would do.) But even the idea of it makes me feel sick. Sick _and_ furious.

I’ve seen people act like this around Baz before. Agatha practically threw herself at him for most of our seventh year. And there was that goat demon earlier. And I’m pretty sure the one time I met some of his university mates at least two of them told me how lucky I was to be with Baz (as if I didn’t already know), so you’d think I’d be immune by now.

It’s not as if I want to lock him away forever. Stop everyone else looking at him. (Even if it probably would make things easier. Things are always easier when it’s just the two of us.) I wouldn’t do that to him.

But – I don’t know. I don’t like it.

If I was here _with_ Baz, I’d show them who’s boyfriend he was. Just like I showed Shepard earlier. And I’d definitely punch Captain Mickey Mouse shoes – who’s still grinning at me from across the room, as though I didn’t almost break his arm. (He raises a glass in a toast and I think about _actually_ breaking his arm.)

Everyone around me is talking. Laughing. A few of them trying to catch my eye.

The woman who left to get me a drink is back with two more martinis. I try to smile at her as she hands one of the glasses to me.

“So, where is your delicious accent from?”

“England. Look, do you know where the Next Blood are?”

“England!” she says, ignoring my question completely. “I’ve always wanted to go there. Is it as charming as everyone says?”

I don’t know what to say to that – not least because I doubt she even cares about the answer. Her long, painted fingernails are digging into my arm through Baz’s fancy suit, like she wants to break the skin. (Maybe vampires like drinking each other’s blood too?)

“It’s fine.” I down my drink and wrench my arm away. “Sorry. I have to go.”

This isn’t getting me anywhere. Baz would probably have got the answer already. In fact, I know he would have. He’s ruthlessly efficient.

And he’s back in the room right now, listening to me fail where he wouldn’t have.

Which is it, actually.

That’s enough.

I push my way towards where the music is coming from – a large set of speakers, plugged into an old-fashioned record player on a chest-of-drawers. And then I yank the power cord out of the wall.

The music stops immediately.

I hear someone say, _“What’s going on?”_ as I climb up onto the chest-of-drawers and look out over the party.

“Someone here must know something about the Next Blood,” I shout. “Just tell me who it is.”

A few people laugh. Some of them turn away. But there’s one of them pushing through the crowd, or maybe the crowd is parting for him.

A guy in a cream suit. With long glossy hair – like Baz’s, but reddish-gold rather than black. And like Baz, he’s almost too pretty to be allowed. (Although I thought that _wasn’t_ a vampire thing, so it’s probably just a coincidence.)

“I can tell you about the Next Blood,” he says. “But not here. Would you mind getting down off the furniture?”

He holds out a hand, I’m guessing to try and help me down. But I don’t take it. I just jump down.

The guy smiles – no. Grins (it’s more predatory than a smile). Blue eyes twinkling, as someone behind me plugs the music back in.

“Better,” he says. “Shall we take a walk?”

**BAZ**

Waiting in a hotel room, listening to Simon Snow pretend to be me while he interrogates fifty – _other_ – bloodthirsty vampires is a special kind of torture. (And I say this as someone who was trapped in a coffin for six weeks, something I consider _actual_ torture. So, I think I know what I’m talking about.)

It’s like listening to a recording of yourself while you were drunk (I assume. I haven't been drunk often enough for it to have ever been recorded). Saying things you don’t remember ever saying.

Without being able to _see_ Simon in front of me, it’s harder to remember that it isn’t just me we’re listening to. Me, drinking with all the other monsters. Welcomed into their set.

But it isn’t me. And that’s the worst part.

It’s Simon.

I wasn’t allowed to care what happened to him – all those times he was off dealing with selkies or goblins or whatever – during our first seven years at Watford. That made it easier somehow.

Particularly because he never told me when he was going, for obvious reasons. I’d tend to see him only on his way back. Covered in blood – not usually his own. Sweaty. Victorious. (Not a bad look on him, I don’t mind saying.) By then I’d realise that he must have been out risking his life. That I might have lost him that afternoon while I’d been doing my homework or – I don’t know – practicing the violin.

But at that point, with Simon stumbling around in our bathroom, it was also abundantly clear I _hadn’t_ lost him. That he was safe.

I also don’t think I ever really thought he _would_ lose, back at Watford. He was Simon Snow. The brightest star in the galaxy. The Greatest Mage. He _always_ won.

Then – in eighth year – there was the time he took off to face the Humdrum on his own, leaving me and Bunce and a yappy dog to follow in my father’s car. By then, we knew what the Humdrum was. How uniquely dangerous it was to Simon. And we all knew it wasn’t something Simon could just eviscerate with his sword.

That was one of the worst days of my life, that Christmas. All that fear. For Simon. The fear that we’d get there too late. That anything might be happening – literally, _anything_ – and I’d be powerless to do anything about it.

Well, this time we know exactly what’s happening. (There are vampires – lots of them – and none of them want to tell Simon what he wants to know.) But we’re still completely powerless.

The party is on the fifty-third floor, more than thirty floors above where we are at the moment. Even if we did hear something over the phone, there’s nothing we can actually _do._ It would take any one of us ten minutes just to get to the penthouse (except me, I suppose – with Simon’s wings. I don’t know how to use them, I haven’t tried to do anything with them except keep them out of the way. But perhaps, in an emergency, I could try breaking the window. Hope Simon’s body remembers how to fly.)

Simon isn’t invincible, anymore. He’s fallible.

He might need help.

Bunce is curiously relaxed (and _Shepard_ is listening avidly, delighted at the chance to listen in on this vampire tête-à-tête.) I suppose she’s been through all of this before. Eight years of it.

“Great Snakes, this takes me back,” she says as some American woman tries to get Simon to bite her. “Fifth year we had an almost constant tail on you. And Simon would always have an absolute fit whenever you talked to anyone else.”

I realise I’ve clenched my fists. (That’s what she’s talking about – that I’m losing control, like Simon would be.) I release them.

“I’m not upset because he’s _talking_ to her.”

And I’m not.

I don’t mind that. I wouldn’t even if he was in his own body. Even if Simon wasn’t being extremely clear that he has a boyfriend and isn’t interested. (I had to watch him with Agatha Wellbelove for years – I’m used to seeing him with other people.)

“Retrospectively, I can’t work out why I didn’t realise he fancied you sooner,” Bunce says, completely ignoring my objection.

(It’s the blood. How easily Simon was able to reject it. That _I_ was offered it. That he might not be able to refuse next time. That they might suspect him _because_ he’s refused it.)

“He used to go on and on about how you must be plotting against him,” Bunce continues blithely. “And then – whenever he found you were just talking about homework or whatever, he’d insist that was all part of the ruse. That you somehow knew he was listening and just wanted to piss him off. And he used to complain constantly about how good you were at football. And how it was so annoying you _knew_ you were better looking than everyone––”

Shepard laughs. “Yeah, that’s pretty gay.

“I’m an idiot,” Bunce concludes.

She gives me a smile – to show she doesn’t _actually_ think she’s an idiot. 

I think she’s probably trying to cheer me up, actually.

It shouldn’t work. I was there, I endured that fifth year; I know what Simon was like – and if anything, it’s embarrassing that Simon used to pay me more attention back when he was my enemy, than he does now I’m his boyfriend. And embarrassing that Bunce thinks I need cheering up.

But I appreciate her trying.

I also do appreciate the reminder that Simon wanted me long before he was willing to admit it.

He _is_ willing to admit it now. He practically savaged Shepard earlier and he must have told almost everyone at this party that he’s got a boyfriend. He’s not hiding it, even when it would probably make things easier. That’s progress (at least, I think it is.) He might even be willing to hold my hand in public again.

Assuming he gets out of this alive.

“I don’t like him being in there, Penelope,” I admit. “Alone.”

She gives me another smile, but a sadder one this time, and reaches out to put her hand over mine. “He’ll be all right – he’s Simon.”

I almost say, _Not anymore._

But that isn’t true. He _is_ still Simon, in all the ways that matter. Whatever he looks like, whatever’s happened to him – he always wins. Since we landed on American soil, I’ve watched him decapitate several vampires, stake another, and stab my wand through the throat of a chaos demon.

He’ll be fine. 

I try and hold onto that feeling as Simon stops the whole party of vampires to demand answers. And then I try again when Simon agrees to go somewhere else with one of them _“as long as there’s no flirting.”_

( _“You may possibly be over-estimating your charms,”_ the vampire says, laughing.) ( _“No,”_ Simon says. _“I’ve seen me. I’m gorgeous.”_ Which is nice, actually. Even if it’s only by proxy. Even if it’s _now._ )

It isn’t easy.

“For fuck’s sake, Simon,” Penelope groans as we hear the noise of the party fading away, and then the ping of the lift doors.

 _“Always good to get a little fresh air at these things,”_ the vampire says. Which means they’re definitely heading outside. _“Don’t you agree, Mr …?”_

 _“Bunce,”_ Simon says. _“But, er, you can call me Simon.”_

 _“Can I? And here I thought you said_ no _flirting. I’m Lamb.”_

Even Shepard is shaking his head. “Never go to a secondary location with an untrustworthy Maybe – that’s rule number one!”

The odds might be better for Simon outside the party. He won’t be in an enclosed location anymore, and we know there are at least fifty vampires in the party. He’s probably read the room and decided he’d be better off leaving with one of them than trying to fight them all. He’ll be fine. He’s thought this through and decided to take the risk.

Oh, who am I kidding?

This is Simon Snow we’re talking about. I doubt he thought this through at _all_. Beyond the fact that the nice man with the fangs offered to tell him what he wanted to know. ( _Supposedly_ offered, anyway.) He could be walking straight into a trap.

I can’t let that happen to him. I can’t lose him.

“Stay here,” I tell the others as I cast **Nothing to see here** on myself.

It would have been stupid to try and infiltrate the party – the vampires would have sniffed me out (sniffed _Simon_ out) almost immediately, however many spells I’d cast. And it _was_ stupid to go out shopping on my own earlier today without eating or casting anything on myself beyond the spell I needed to hide Simon’s wings.

But tonight, outside, amongst the Normals, and under the spell, I should be able to stay hidden. I can be there if Simon needs me.

“Baz?” Penelope says as I pull the hotel room door open. “Baz, what’re you doing?”

But I don’t answer her.

I don’t want her to stop me.

**SIMON**

I follow the other vampire out of the party and into the lift. We don’t talk much on the way down, because as soon as I start asking about the Next Blood, he shakes his head.

“Not here.”

We walk out through the lobby. All the doormen seem to know him (all the _vampire_ doormen). One of them actually bows as we head through the revolving doors.

“Have a nice evening, Mr Lamb.”

I think I feel him – _Lamb –_ resting a hand on my shoulder. But when I turn to yell at him about it, he’s got both his hands in his trouser pockets.

I shake my head to try and clear it.

I think I’m a bit drunk, actually. Which makes no sense (I’ve only had two martinis) until I remember that _Baz_ doesn’t drink at all.

Shit. This isn’t good. (It also might be why I thought it was OK to jump on a table earlier.) But it’s probably too late to do anything about it now – I just have to not let on that I’m incapacitated.

“So, where are we going?” I say as we start down the Strip.

I’m hoping to get some information for Penny and Baz – both of whom are probably going ballistic back at the hotel room. (With admittedly good reason. I _did_ say I wouldn’t leave the party.) But Lamb just gives another of those grins, the ones that make it seem like there’s a joke that he and the rest of the world are in on, which I’ll catch onto eventually.

“Somewhere we can get to know each other.”

“Yeah,” I say. “No offense, but I’m not really interested in getting to know you.”

Lamb mimes disappointment, shaking his head. His long hair swishes around his face. “No pleasantries. No flirting. That’s not the England I left behind.”

“You’re _never_ English,” I say before I can help it – because he really isn’t. His accent is like someone off Friends. And he has the same teeth as everyone here. White. And dangerous looking.

“I am, in fact,” Lamb says. “Or was, a long time ago. But let’s not talk about me – you’ve already said you’re not interested. Let’s talk about you _._ A trade,” he says as I frown. “One form of information for another. _”_

We’ve reached an ice-cream parlour, decked out like it’s from the fifties. When Lamb opens the door, I get a blast of _Earth Angel_ coming from a juke box.

“You see what fascinates me,” Lamb says as we settle into a booth, “is what a fine, young Englishman – such as yourself – is _doing_ looking for the Next Blood?”

He smiles up at the waitress, who has already brought two shakes to our table (I guess all the staff here know him here, too). And then his eyes are right back on me. Hard this time, no twinkle.

“What do you think they can offer you, Simon?”

 _Magic_ , I think.

A second chance.

But one thing I know about vampires is that most of them hate magicians. (Probably because we’ve been wiping them out for decades, to be fair.) I can’t exactly tell him I was one. And that my boyfriend is magic. And my best friend.

I don’t have a lie prepared. We didn’t talk about that back in the hotel room. (I think I assumed all I’d have to do would be to ask and someone would just tell me. _“Oh, the Next Blood – that’s right, second on the left past the ferris wheel. You can’t miss them.”_ )

I wish I hadn’t had those martinis earlier – my brain feels sluggish. Like it’s full of fluff. I think there might be alcohol in this milkshake. Why did Baz have to be such a lightweight?

Why did _I_ have to drink? Baz wouldn’t have.

He’d be able to think of something. Or Penny.

Shepard would probably just tell him the truth. But then he _isn’t_ magic and never has been. (I wonder if Shepard’s only helping us so that he can get magic too. That doesn’t sound right, though – he wanted to help us long before he knew what we were doing. I’m pretty sure he’s on the level.) (Is Lamb? Why is he even talking to me?)

Fortunately, Lamb is still filling the silence while I think. (I like people who do that, people like Penny and Baz. It makes me feel like I’m not ruining everything by being quiet. I’m not making it _weird_. Although I’m not sure I _do_ like Lamb. He’s too smooth by half.)

“You’re already one of us,” he says now. “You’re already the peak of evolution. Do you _really_ think magic will make your life better?”

“No,” I say.

Which is true.

It won’t make my life better. And it definitely won’t make it _good_. (Magic’s never worked out well for me.) I just need it back. I just need things to go back to normal.

Lamb’s eyes narrow. “Then why? Why are you looking for them?”

I’m still thinking about Baz. How Baz would know what to say right now. And I’m supposed to _be_ Baz, which means that I should know what to say too.

But that’s the only bit of Baz I don’t have. The bit that makes him, him. The bit that would be able to think his way out of this.

I’ve got his long elegant hands. (They’re resting on the table, not wrapped around the milkshake like I would if I was still me. It’s cold. And Baz is always cold. Except for last night. When I gave him the warmth from my body in exchange for the stars.)

And I’ve got his sense of smell. When I breathe in, I can smell all the people sitting around us. Every one of them far more appealing than the ice cream in front of me. One of them even smells a bit like _me_ – or like Baz does when he’s me. And there’s a bit of my brain that wants to find out who that person is and – I don’t know. Do _something_ to them, even though they’re a complete stranger and that would be murder. But I just – I really want to.

And suddenly I know why Baz would be going to see the Next Blood.

**BAZ**

“Because I don’t like being a vampire,” Simon says.

Lamb blinks. Whatever he was expecting, that _wasn’t_ it.

It wasn’t what I was expecting, either. And I feel it like a sharp slap to the face. (Simon’s only been a vampire for a day – less than a day, and he already hates it. Which is understandable. But I should be doing something to try and change him back, not just sitting here watching as he chats with the local filth.)

I know he might not mean it. I know he had to say _something_ (and admitting that he’s the former Chosen One, and we want to see whether the Next Blood can give him his magic back, is unlikely to go down well.) But the thought that it might be true is devastating.

Because I know exactly how it feels.

I’m in the booth opposite the two of them in the ice cream parlour. Still invisible, of course, although when I got here Simon’s stomach reminded me that he hasn’t eaten for almost an hour now and I actually thought seriously about spelling myself visible, just so I could order a milkshake of my own. Or a sundae. (Two sundaes?)

Lamb’s younger than he sounded over the phone. Younger than my parents. And he’s handsome and well dressed. The two of us (by which I mean, _Lamb_ and Simon in my body) look very obviously like we’ve come from a different party to all the other patrons, most of whom are tourists in shorts and _‘Viva Las Vegas!’_ t-shirts. I suppose we have.

I’m surprised, I think. How much he looks like me, the real me. The other vampires we met in Covent Garden seemed like a different species, but Lamb and I are the same type. Both of us pale and otherworldly.

So, naturally, I hate him already.

“You do know what the Next Blood _are,_ don’t you?” he says now. “They’re like us, physically.”

“You mean, they’re vampires?” Simon says. “Yeah. I mean, I know. But they’re not _vampire_ -vampires, are they? They don’t drink blood.”

Lamb grimaces. “Would you mind not using that word?”

“What? _Vampire_?” Simon says.

I almost laugh, even though I don’t _think_ Simon means to take the piss. But it’s good to see Lamb squirm. I doubt I’d have managed that.

Lamb _does_ laugh – but in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “There’s such a thing as being overconfident,” he says. “Even when you hold all the cards.”

I see Simon shrug. It’s funny – watching him it’s easier to remember who he is. It’s not _me;_ it’s clearly Simon. Simon shrugging. Simon taunting a vampire without really thinking about. (I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking – that it’s good to know Lamb’s afraid. Of something. Even if we don’t know what it is, yet. He doesn’t want everyone to know what he is. We might be able to use that.)

“So that’s it,” Lamb says. “That’s what you object to, is it? The _blood_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Simon says. “Obviously.” He frowns. “And the lying.”

And yes, I knew it was coming. But that one also hurts. (I hate being called a liar. Almost as much as I hate lying to practically everyone I’ve ever met.)

“It isn’t obvious to me,” Lamb says, leaning back in his seat. “But I suppose I’ve become used to what it’s like here. That’s why you fascinate me.”

He closes his eyes, considering.

“I’d have thought … eternity. Perhaps.” He cracks an eye at Simon. “I’ve heard life can get you down after the first few centuries. Can’t say I’ve found that myself, though.”

“What?” Simon’s eyes – my eyes – are very wide. “Vampires can live forever?”

Lamb sighs and Simon hastily corrects himself.

“Sorry, I mean, people like you––”

“Like _us,”_ Lamb says. And this time he leans forward. “Yes. We can do. Unless we’re cut down by steel or fire. Didn’t you know?”

Simon shakes his head.

I know he’s wondered, though. Even I have (and I try and think about being a vampire as little as possible). There was no one to ask, though – vampiric scholars being notoriously unreliable. And it wasn’t as if I was ever going to find a vampire to _ask._ Even though, Simon has. Somehow.

Anyway. Now we know.

I’m immortal. (Unless Lamb is lying, which is entirely possible.) I’ll outlive Simon. My family. Everyone I’ve ever known. Everyone I’ve ever cared about.

How old _is_ Lamb _?_ He looks thirty. Thirty-five at most. 

How old will _I_ look when I’m thirty?

If I was visible, I’d be trying to control my reaction. The way I look. What I said in response to this outrageous claim.

Even if I was back in the hotel room, Bunce and the American would both be there and I’d have to shrug it off. But here, where there’s no one to see, I can feel the full horror of it threatening to overtake me.

Simon’s human body is having what I think is a panic attack. Simon’s heart beating dangerously fast. I have to grab hold of his tail before it whips out and trips over a waitress.

I press my forehead against the plastic edge of the booth. _Fuck. Get it together, Basilton._ It was always a possibility.

I wonder whether either of them can hear my breathing. It must be loud. More than loud enough for vampire ears to pick up, although the music’s loud enough, I think. And there are other people here. Is Lamb the sort of vampire who counts the number of living people in every room? The number of people he can hear breathing?

Crowley, I should leave. I shouldn’t have come. This isn’t protecting Simon, it’s just madness.

But Lamb is still talking and I can’t. I can’t leave yet. Not while he’s telling Simon everything I don’t want to know.

“You must have noticed?” he says. “That you don’t age.”

“No,” Simon says. “I mean – I _am_ aging. And I’ve noticed it. That I age.”

Now it’s Lamb’s turn to look surprised. “How old where you when you were bitten?”

“Er,” Simon says, clearly trying to remember. “Five?

“Right. And now you’re – how old?”

“Twenty.”

Lamb exhales. “Okay. Worse than I thought.” He reaches out for Simon’s wrist. “May I? I promise – this is _not_ a come on.”

I’m certain Simon is going to refuse. It’s what I’d do.

He _doesn’t_. He holds out his hands, both of them, and lets Lamb pull his wrists across the table.

I’m out of my seat before I can stop myself. Wand very much out. (I don’t even know what I’m worried about. Simon’s me, he’s a vampire – it’s not as though Lamb can Turn me _again._ It just feels wrong. Like I should definitely stop this. Somehow.) But Lamb just peers closely at my hands, turns them over, and sets them back down.

“Hm.” He leans back in his seat. “Interesting.”

“What?” Simon prompts – and I wish I could echo him.

What? What is it? What in Crowley’s name could he deduce from looking at my fucking hands? Everyone knows palmistry isn’t real magic.

Lamb is frowning. “You _are_ drinking blood, aren’t you? You don’t _like_ it, but you’re doing it.”

Simon nods. “Four birds this morning.”

“Okay,” Lamb says. “British slang, I get it. _Women,_ right?”

Simon looks horrified. “Birds. _Bird_ -birds. I wouldn’t bite a woman. And I definitely wouldn’t bite four of them.”

“Why not?” Lamb says. “Are you gay?”

“Yes,” Simon says.

Which briefly makes me feel pleased (which is ridiculous. We’ve been dating for nearly two years. I know Simon’s gay. The last time I had his tongue in my mouth was barely three hours ago.)

Until he follows it up with: “Probably.” (Which is _also_ ridiculous.) (We’ve been dating for _two years_. Or near enough.)

“I mean, I’ve got a boyfriend. Baz.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, is this relevant?”

“It’s interesting.” Lamb has propped his chin on his hands now. He looks genuinely fascinated. “So, you bite _him_? Usually, I mean.”

“What? _No_.”

“Why not?”

“ _Because_ ,” Simon says hotly, “ _obviously_ , I love him. And I don’t want him dead _or_ a vampire.”

It’s the first time he’s said it.

The first time either of us have said it (out loud – I’ve thought it plenty of times.) And it wasn’t obvious at all. Not to me, anyway.

I thought I’d be first. Even though Simon was the one to kiss me, the one who asked to be my boyfriend. Because that was the old Simon. The bold one. The one who wanted to be with me.

Until recently, I was fairly sure that Simon _didn’t_ love me anymore. If he ever had done.

I imagined I’d have to tell him when he tried to break up with me, if nothing else. That I’d be desperate enough, then, for the truth. That I’d use whatever I could to hold onto him.

But instead it’s Simon (who does _know_ I’m listening in, even if he thinks it’s down the other end of a phone).

And I can’t even react – I can’t tell him what it means to me, or reciprocate. Because I’m not supposed to be here. _And_ because I’m still busy panicking about my own immortality, which Simon knows I must also have heard. (Unless he’s forgotten. Unless he’s just telling a complete stranger how he feels about me before he’s told _me_. At this point, I’m not sure which is worse.)

I try and concentrate on Lamb, who doesn’t know what Simon’s confession means. And presumably wouldn’t care if he did.

He’s still talking as though none of this really matters. 

“I’m not suggesting you drain him dry. But a little nip now and again? Well, that never hurt anyone. Not really.”

I watch as Lamb’s expression changes to realisation, rather than look at whatever is happening on Simon’s face at that news. (Rather than think about what I think Lamb’s saying.)

“You’ve never bitten anyone before, have you?” he says. “No people. Just birds.”

“And rats,” Simon says.

Lamb exhales. “I think I’m beginning to see why you hate being what you are. I may also have a theory about your aging…”

“You are absolutely _sure_ vampire bites don’t kill?” Simon presses. 

Lamb laughs – and this time, I think it’s a real one. Even though I’m sure he still doesn’t like hearing the word _vampire._

“Did you really think you were drinking milkshakes with a serial killer?”

Simon shrugs. “Basically.”

Lamb shakes his head. “ _Simon,_ ” he chides. “What are we going to do with you?”

“So, you’re saying you’re _not_ a serial killer.”

“Some of us are,” Lamb admits. “I’m more of a hedonist myself. It’s a shame you’ve never tried real blood, Simon – I think you’d enjoy it.”

And then, before Simon can reply to that horrific suggestion, “Are you going to get that?”

I can’t hear anything, over the music – or maybe I’m just too far away, but I _can_ see Simon pull my phone out of his pocket.

“Shit.” He’s looking at the screen. “Yeah. Sorry. I probably should––”

“Take your time,” Lamb calls lazily after him as Simon staggers out of the booth, phone already at his ear.

I’m not sure whether I should follow him. The call will be from Penelope, of course, telling Simon that I’ve run off – so I don’t need to listen in. But I’ve come here to make sure that Simon’s safe. I _should_ follow him.

On the other hand, I don’t like the idea of leaving Lamb unobserved. Already he’s eyeing up the other patrons of the ice-cream parlour like Simon eyeing up a menu at the Cheesecake Factory. (And yes, I know he _said_ he wasn’t a serial killer, but he’s a dark creature. He’s a liar. He has to be.) (Because if he _isn’t_ lying–– Well. If he isn’t lying, then he knows more about me than I do. And we’ve probably only scratched the surface.)

I glance over at Simon. He’s fine, one of his hands clutched in my hair as he talks animatedly into the phone. He’ll be fine.

And then I look back over at Lamb – who is looking straight at me.

_Fuck._

My **Nothing to see here** must have failed. It’s not a particularly British phrase – at least, I don’t think it is, I’m not really sure anymore _–_ but it does this. Wears off after an hour or so. I must have lost track of time. (Well, obviously, I have.) And now Lamb can see me.

Wonderful.

He crooks his fingers at me, beckoning me over. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards in a smile.

And I don’t want to – at least, I shouldn’t want to – but I find myself standing up. Walking over and sitting down opposite him.

Lamb smiles at me as I do it. As though he knows me. As though, we’re _friends_ – or we’re going to be.

“Hello,” he says, still smiling. “You must be the boyfriend. _Baz_ , right?”

**SIMON**

I’ve always hated Fiona Pitch.

She’s been fucking awful to me ever since I was eleven, when she introduced herself by telling me the Sword of Mages used to belong to her dad. And that she was glad he was already dead because seeing someone like me with it would have probably killed him. 

I thought she might be nicer to me after I lost the sword. Once I wasn’t the Mage’s Heir anymore, and I’d helped expose the mystery around her sister’s death. But the only time I’ve seen her since Watford, she threatened to sue me for what’d happened to Pitch Manor.

Baz said she was obviously joking, there aren’t any magickal lawyers and she knows I don’t have any money. But he didn’t see her face. I _know_ she meant it. And even if she didn’t, it wasn’t a _funny_ joke, was it? Ha ha, look forward to further poverty, Simon, after a long, public reminder of the biggest mistake you ever made. Fucking hilarious.

Anyway, I stopped sleeping over at Baz’s flat after that, even though he promised she wouldn’t be there.

Or maybe I just used it as an excuse to stop sleeping over at Baz’s flat, I don’t know.

The point is, there are a lot of things I’d rather be doing than trying to have a conversation with Fiona fucking Pitch over a transatlantic telephone call. While I’m drunk.

And pretending to be Baz.

And when I really need to call Penny back so that she and Baz don’t assume that Lamb’s killed me.

And when I need to call Baz so - Well, I don't know what I need to do yet, but I know I need to do something. I don't even know how he's feeling. I don’t know if he’s happy about what he heard or upset. I mean, it must be good to know, at least. Surely. Merlin, I need to find him. Make sure he’s OK.

But I haven’t completed my mission yet. And he’s with Penny, who is probably better at handling this sort of thing than I am, if I’m honest. (The last time I comforted Baz, I did it by kissing him. And retrospectively, I’m lucky he liked me because otherwise he’d have been even more upset afterwards than he was before I started.) 

I have to complete the mission first - and then I can talk to Baz. 

The problem is that I can’t get Fiona to hang up, even though it must be the middle of the night where she is. And I’m guessing she has to sleep at some point.

I only accepted the call by mistake ( _if_ I accepted the call at all. Because it would be just like Fiona Pitch to magic Baz’s phone, wouldn’t it? So that it always puts her through, even when he’s already on a call to someone else.) And now I’m stuck trying to explain why I called her earlier today (I didn’t – Baz must have done it while he was out shopping) because Baz never calls, apparently, unless things are bad. Or he’s broken something in the flat and doesn’t know how to fix it with magic.

I mean, they _are_ bad. (Maybe. I’m not sure) But I don’t think anything will get any better if I tell Fiona the truth.

“Let me help you out, Basil,” Fiona says, cutting me off as I try and tell her I’ll call her back. “Is it, by any chance, anything to do with the video I saw of you and the Chosen Idiot roasting American vampires?”

“Oh,” I say. “You’ve seen that, have you?”

“Of course, I’ve bloody seen it,” Fiona says. “I’m a vampire slayer. It got sent round the WhatsApp group almost immediately.”

I didn’t know there was a vampire slayers WhatsApp group. It seems like maybe we should be invited to join it, but I don’t suggest this to Fiona. I don’t think it's the time.

“What the fuck are you even doing in America, Baz?”

“We’re on holiday? We were going to see Agatha. And Micah.”

“Who?”

(For fuck’s sake - doesn’t Baz tell his family _anything_?)

“You know, Agatha Wellbelove? Simon’s ex-girlfriend. And Micah was Penny’s boyfriend – only now they’ve broken up too. Look, I really have to go––”

“Sounds like a relationship disaster zone,” Fiona says, ignoring me again. “Have you dumped the Chosen One yet?”

My heart feels like it’s stopped.

Has Baz been discussing me with his aunt? Was he thinking of breaking up with me?

“Because it’s been long enough,” Fiona continues, with absolutely no idea that my whole universe is crumbling around me. (Baz _is_ my universe.) “You need to leave him. He was probably the one who got you into that bust up with the vampires yesterday, wasn’t he?”

“ _No_ ,” I say, because this is so unfair that I’m not having it. “I didn’t–– I mean, _Simon_ didn’t even want to fight the vampires. It was me.”

“When are you going to stop making excuses for him?” Fiona wants to know. “You know he’s a dangerous lunatic. When he isn’t being completely useless, that is. And don’t give me that shit about being in love with him, again, Basil,” she says when I try and interrupt. “It was nauseating the first time.”

It takes me a while to process this, I think because it’s the complete opposite of what I expected to hear.

Baz hasn’t told his aunt he’s going to break up with me. He doesn’t think I’m useless or mad. A freak with wings who can’t get off the sofa. Well, not _just_ that anyway.

He’s told her he loves me.

I mean, obviously, he hasn’t told _me_ that – but then I haven’t told him. Even though sometimes I feel like I’m going to die because of it. That I love Baz so much I forget how to breathe.

I think that might be happening to me right now, actually. So, I stop talking. And just concentrate on that for a while. Breathing in and breathing out.

And on Baz, being in love with me.

If he’d told me himself, I might not have believed him. I’d have tried, obviously, but I also thought until we got to America that he was probably just staying with me because he had to. Not because of this.

“I’ve told you I’m in love with Simon before?” I say, just to check. Just to be completely sure.

Fiona sighs enormously. “Yes. I _know._ ”

“Then back off, will you?” I say. (It feels like I can say anything to anyone now. Particularly Fiona – who does she think she is, anyway? She’s just Baz’s aunt.) “I know what I’m doing. And Simon’s doing much better, actually, thank you for asking.”

“Whatever,” Fiona says. “Anyway, I told the Coven you were all on a mission for me and that I’d said you could kill as many vampires as you wanted. Most Normals think the footage is faked. So you’re off the hook.”

“Thanks,” I say. And then because that doesn’t sound like enough, “I owe you.”

Fiona sniffs. “Well. Enjoy the rest of your holiday,” she says – and for a moment I almost like her. Then: “Tell your loser boyfriend, I’m still waiting to hear from his lawyer.”

“Oh, piss off,” I say. And she hangs up, still laughing.

I’m not angry, though.

I feel good. (Merlin, I feel _so good_.) I need to run back to the hotel room and tackle Baz to the floor. Maybe lock the two of us into the bathroom so we have some privacy. And then I’ll tell him what I should have told him earlier.

That I love him.

And that – maybe – we don’t need to see the Next Blood after all. Because if Baz loves me – if Baz _already_ loves me, I mean, even the way I am right now – then I don’t need my magic back. And if biting people isn’t a death sentence, then Baz doesn’t need to see the Next Blood either.

My other reason’s gone too, since we’re already in California and our flight back is the day after tomorrow. Do we still have to risk everyone’s lives tracking down more vampires? I mean, we should definitely talk about it, at least.

When I ring Penny back, she sounds about as anxious as I’ve ever heard her. And that includes the time we thought the school might be about to explode because I hadn’t configured the Third Gate properly.

“Simon! Thank Morgana, you’re all right. I couldn’t get through.”

“I’m fine, Penny. Can you put Baz on?”

I’m almost bouncing on the soles of my feet.

“Isn’t he with you?” Penny asks.

“Why would he be with me?”

I turn around, even though I know Baz isn’t here. (Is he?) I came here with Lamb, not Baz. I would’ve have smelled him – I think.

“He ran off after you about an hour ago,” Penny says. “I’ve been texting you since then to try and tell you.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Ask Lamb about the crucifix, Simon,” Shepard’s voice says insistently in the background. “After you find Baz. Why does it work against vampires? Isn’t it just a shape? Ask him if he thinks it’s a sign God really exists.”

I’m not really listening. I’m walking back through the ice-cream parlour because I’ve realised that I _can_ smell Baz. And that I think I probably smelled him earlier, too.

Then I see him (or rather, I see _me_ – my hair still gelled in that stupid way Baz likes) sitting in the booth I just left.

With Lamb, who I’m now almost certain I don’t like. And who I definitely don’t trust. (I’d say at least he’s been helpful – if only for his own reasons – but that’s not even true. He hasn’t told me a single thing about the Next Blood.)

I wonder what Baz is making of him. (Mincemeat, probably. Baz _hates_ vampires.)

“Got him,” I tell Penny. “Don’t worry – we’ll be back soon.” Then I put the phone back in my pocket and slide into the booth next to Baz.

“Hey.”

I’m grinning, just looking at him – and, even though we’re in public, and I wouldn’t normally do this, I lean towards him and kiss him at the corner of his mouth.

After that, I want to kiss him more. And I really want to tell him that I know (I _know_ ) and that I feel the same way. But, well, we _are_ in public. And Baz already looks kind of uncomfortable, which I guess I can understand. He looks like I probably do whenever Baz makes me go to his dad’s house.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Baz says shortly.

“And then we found each other,” Lamb says. “While you were gone.”

He’s still exactly the same as when I left. Still grinning, his eyes wide and playful.

“I was just explaining to your young man how very good it feels to have someone’s teeth in you,” he says.

“You’d know, would you?” Baz says, coolly. (And I can tell he’s not trying to pretend to be me at all, because I’ve never sounded that cool in my entire life.)

“I haven’t had any complaints.”

“Corpses aren’t very chatty.”

“Satisfied customers _are_ ,” Lamb counters. He sucks the last of his milkshake out of the glass, so that it makes an ominous rattling sound. (I think I’d get the innuendo, even if he wasn’t staring at Baz’s – at _my_ – neck.) “You’re missing out.”

“If you try and bite him, I will actually kill you,” I tell Lamb, who smiles at me as though it’s a joke. And holds up his hands.

“Please. I wouldn’t bite someone else’s date.”

Baz sneers at him. “As if I’d let you touch him.”

Lamb arches an eyebrow (and I get it. I’m sure it _is_ confusing – but I don’t think either of us are likely to explain it to him, so it’s good that he just continues as though Baz hasn’t spoken.)

“But _you_ really should, Simon. Think about it – no more rats. No more hiding.”

Put like that it definitely sounds reasonable.

I look at Baz, who definitely isn’t looking at me. (I guess that means he _doesn’t_ think it’s reasonable.)

“We’ll talk about it,” I say as Lamb stands up, pulling enough dollar bills out of his pocket to pay for the milkshakes. I guess that’s enough for him because he smiles and starts to leave.

“Wait,” I catch his sleeve, “you didn’t tell me about the Next Blood.”

Lamb’s expression tightens. “They won’t solve your problems for you, Simon.”

“Maybe not. I’d still like to know.”

“And you said you had a theory,” Baz says quickly, like he’s just remembered it. “About the aging––”

For a moment, I think Lamb’s going to refuse – after all this. After everything I’ve already told him. Then he sighs and shakes his head, like he really should know better.

“Two o’clock. Lotus of Siam.”

And then he’s gone. It’s a relief.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and lean towards Baz, resting my chin against his shoulder. I can’t do that when I’m me – rest my chin on his shoulder. Not easily, anyway – he’s too tall. And I’d probably be worrying about people seeing.

But it’s nice. The shirt he chose for me is soft and it feels good against my face. (Maybe I don’t completely hate it.) When I breathe in, I smell the new shampoo Baz bought himself and under that the smell of him.

“Do you want a milkshake?” I ask him, because I know if I was here and I was me, I’d definitely want a milkshake.

But he just shakes his head.

**BAZ**

The walk back to the hotel was excruciating. Simon kept touching me, which normally I’d welcome. (Normally, I’d be ecstatic.) But every time he leant in, I thought he was going to bite me.

(Which he didn’t, obviously – I think even Simon Snow would ask before he tried something like that – but that didn’t stop me jumping whenever he reached for my hand.)

I’ve probably got some sort of sort of deep-seated trauma from being bitten as a child. That therapist that Daphne’s always trying to send me to would probably have a field day with this.

And they’d _definitely_ have something to say about the truth.

Because the truth is that I think I want him to do it.

Now, while we’re like this. While Simon’s me.

While Simon’s the one who’d have to do it first.

He’s always been braver than – well, than anyone, but certainly braver than me. He proved it again tonight by being the first one of us to use _love_ in a sentence that didn’t end with a food, a family member, or a favourite television programme. (Not that I’m entirely sure I heard what I thought I did now. It occurred to me while I was talking to Lamb that _I_ am very obviously in love with Simon and that Simon was pretending to be me when he made his declaration.) (And yes, I could ask him. But also, I _can’t_ ask him – I’m a coward.)

I think that’s probably why we haven’t had sex. Because Simon didn’t want it and I didn’t know how to push him without driving him away. If it had been the other way around, Simon would have worked it out. He’d have kissed me until I crumbled. He’d have flattered me until I was putty in his hands.

I don’t know if I can bite Simon. (Obviously, I _can’t_ right now, or not in any way that matters. But once we’re back in our own bodies? Once I’ve got my fangs back?) But I know Simon could bite me.

I think he wants to. (He _said_ we’d talk about it.)

Crowley.

And then – if he does, if Lamb’s right – my life could change.

No more rats. Not more hiding. And I could have Simon – in one of the ways I’ve always wanted him. For a while, at least.

 _Yes_ , Lamb might still be lying. Or we might get it wrong (Lamb didn’t tell either of us if there’s a difference between the kind of bite you enjoy, and the kind of bite that leaves with you a pair of fangs of your own). But that’s the other thing, of course – if Simon does it, then it would be his fault. If it went wrong.

If he ends up stuck as a vampire forever. With me.

 _“You probably haven’t had the happily-ever-after conversation yet,”_ Lamb said to me earlier, while Simon was across the room. _“But if you love him, you should at least consider it. Being what he is can be a gift – but it is also lonely.”_

I’ve never suggested it to Simon. I’ve _never_ thought it. Never wanted it – before. But then I’ve never known for certain that I was going to live forever before, either.

I told Lamb it was out of the question. And it is.

It _is_.

Even _if_ I was willing to Turn Simon (which I definitely am not), I hardly think _this_ is the right time. Our relationship has barely survived two years. Eternity might be asking a bit much.

It would be.

I hate being a vampire. And I love Simon. I wouldn’t want— I mean, even if–– Even _if_ it’s not as bad as I think it is. Even if Simon would be better able to protect himself like this–– Even then. I could _never_ do it to him. Never.

But it wouldn’t be my fault if it was an accident.

“Hey,” Simon says as we reach our floor in the hotel, “stop a second. There’s something I want to say. Privately.”

He catches my hand and I try not to flinch as he tugs me towards him. Because he’s going to do it (the stupid brave bastard). He’s going to tell me we should go for it. And I’m not ready.

I don’t know if I’ll make the right choice yet.

I let Simon kiss me, his too-cold lips sliding against mine. And then I pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “But I really can’t talk about this right now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interestingly, very little of what happens in this chapter was in my head when I started writing 'Greener Grass'. Now it feels like this is why the fic exists. 
> 
> The theory Lamb posits re, blood and ageing isn't mine - I think it was originally KrisRix who made the connection. I'd also like to credit him and [Three Chord Progression](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645438) for making me think about how the 'Because we match' conversation makes Simon feel in 'Wayward Son'.  
> 
> 
> **  
> Content warning/spoilers:  
> **
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> I've kept the rating at Teen, which I still think is appropriate. But if you're uncomfortable with eroticising - say - vampire bites, you should turn back now. There's also a bit of groping and they talk about having sex. Not much worse than what's depicted in 'Carry On'.
> 
> .
> 
> .
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> .

**SIMON**

There’s no way Baz could have known.

That’s what Penny told me when she was talking me down last night. _“He wasn’t rejecting you, Simon. He didn’t know what you were going to say. How could he?”_

She’s probably right. (Even though a part of me wanted to point out that she didn’t notice when Micah rejected _her_ , so perhaps she’s not the best judge.) And if she is – right – then it means that Baz didn’t spend the night locked in the bathroom because he couldn’t bear to hear me say I loved him.

But he _did_ spend the night locked in the bathroom. And it probably wasn’t because he wanted to spend more time alone with my naked body, either. (When Penny forced her way in there this morning to pee, she found Baz fully dressed and asleep in the bath.)

 _“Think about it,”_ Shepard told me this morning. _“It a lot to take in. Penelope tells me you guys know less about vampires than I do, which – you know – I find hard to understand, because Baz is one. But there were some pretty big revelations there.”_

 _“I know_ _that!_ ” I told him.

And I do. I wanted to be there for Baz as soon as I heard all of that stuff.

But he looked OK when I saw him. He was talking to Lamb, a vampire. About _being_ a vampire. And he was so cool about it. So of course, I thought he _was_ OK.

Although maybe that’s not right.

Maybe I didn’t think at all. Maybe I thought that Baz being in love with me was more important than everything else. That it changed everything. It still does, I think. For me, anyway.

But this isn’t just about me.

Neither Penny nor Shepard say it (they’re both too nice) (well, Shepard is) but I know they must both be thinking it: _Not everything is about you, Simon._

But it is, isn’t it?

Or at least, it might as well be. Because I _always_ make everything about me.

(In my defence, I really was the Chosen One. And I was also the reason we almost lost all the magic in the world – it probably isn’t too surprising that I ended up with a complex about it.)

I’ve forced Penny and Baz to spend the last year looking after me. And now we’re all in America because of me.

This whole trip is because of me.

Agatha’s fine. She’s happy. She’s living her life. (And doing a much better job than any of the rest of us are, apparently.) Penny must have known that from the beginning. And it’s not like Baz even _liked_ Agatha, despite what I thought for years. He wouldn’t come to America because she was depressed.

He’s here because of me. Because _I’m_ depressed. He got shot, and burnt, and had to fight vampires, and had his body taken away, _because of me._ Because Penny thought this would make me happy. And it did. It made me so happy that I let them both think that we needed to keep going. For me. So that _I_ could get my magic back. So that _I’d_ be fixed.

Thinking about it, even trying to break up with Baz – something I really thought I was doing for him – was about me. I never asked _him_ if he wanted to break up with me. I don’t think he did.

It was me. I wanted to break up with him.

Even though I love him. Even though he loves me.

I wanted to break up with him because I didn’t think I should have him. Because it was easier than getting better. I didn’t think someone like me deserved to have someone like Baz and I wanted to make things _right._ Put the universe back the way it ought to be. Let Baz go so he could find someone worthy of him. Someone who could actually have sex, not just think about it constantly. Someone without extra limbs. Someone who could drive and who could leave the flat more than twice a week.

And then Baz would be gone.

And then Penny could move out.

And I’d be alone.

It’s what I thought would happen. What I thought I deserved. But I don’t want it anymore. (I mean, I never _wanted_ it – I just thought it was depressingly inevitable). I want to talk to Baz about our future, instead. How I’m going to get better. Get a job. Go back to therapy – whatever I need to do to be someone worth him loving.

And I still want to tell him that I’m in love with him.

But I know that’s still making the story about me. It’s still about how I need to change. How _I’m_ in love with him. And this – what we heard from Lamb – isn’t actually anything to do with me. It’s about Baz.

He’s still not okay with being a vampire. (Which I knew – but I didn’t _know_.) He’s hurting, and he doesn’t like himself, and he doesn’t know what to do about it because that’s who he _is_ and he can’t change it.

_When someone shows you who they are, believe them._

I wonder whether Baz saw that show too. Whether Maya Angelou messed with _his_ head.

I’ve built up this idea about Baz in my head. That he’s perfect. That his _life_ is perfect – except for the bits that had me in them. I thought he was thriving. But when I look in the mirror and see Baz looking back at me, he looks as sad and lost as I feel. (And I know it’s because I _am_ Baz right now, and it’s actually just me I’m seeing. But magic is metaphor – and, as a metaphor, it works.) (Besides, I’m not the one who spent the night in a fucking bath because I didn’t want to see other people. Baz is definitely sad. And lost. And probably quite sore.)

Yesterday I learned it was easier to be strong because Baz needed me. Today I’m realising that Baz has been being strong for _me_ for the last year. He’s just as fucked up as I am.

It doesn’t make me happy to realise this. Any of this. But it means I do know what I have to do now. I have to be _Baz_ for Baz. Look after him, the way he’s looked after me since we left Watford. Making it about him for once.

Fortunately, he’s still me right now. Which means I know what to do.

**BAZ**

Sleeping in a bathtub isn’t recommended. Even if you spell it soft. And probably even if you don’t have wings that barely fit into a _bed_. I ache in places I didn’t have last week and I know I slept on Simon’s tail. It’s numb. And when I finally move, it starts crackling with pins and needles.

I don’t actually use the bath, even though the idea of Simon covered in bubbles would normally be very appealing. (I still haven’t taken him up on the suggestion he made last night to look at him. I’m too depressed to enjoy it.) (And honestly, if he isn’t going to let me look at him when he’s back in his own body, I’d rather not torture myself by looking at what I might never have.) Bunce has made it clear she needs the facilities, so I just spell myself clean and – go out to face the music.

Go out to face my boyfriend – who I want to bite (or perhaps I should say, who I want to bite _me_. I’m still not feeling any better about that). And my friends – who I’ll outlive.

They were all talking about it last night. Debriefing. I heard them at it, even though they were whispering and there was a bathroom door between us. It went on for hours. Bunce wanted to know everything, even though she heard most of it over the phone. Shepard wanted to know everything too. And then he wanted to tell Simon everything that _he_ knew about vampires.

It wasn’t much. Shepard doesn’t consider himself an expert, apparently ( _“I keep asking if they want to go to coffee with me, but I guess they think Starbucks is overrated.”_ ) But it seems even he knew that vampires can bite without Turning their victims. 

_“How_ do _they do it, then?”_ I heard Simon ask.

If he got an answer, I didn’t hear it. (Although I did hear Shepard say, “ _It’s not easy”_ before I moved away from the door _._ So perhaps that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. Not something that can be done by accident.)

Fortunately, no one questions me when I finally step out into the main room. Bunce is desperate for the loo and Shepard is eating breakfast. Miniature burgers. (Is this really what we’ve come to – burgers for breakfast?) (I suppose this _is_ America.) I haven’t eaten since yesterday and Simon’s body is very insistently telling me it’s dying, so I scoop up two buns, one in each hand. I eat the first in a single bite. It’s covered in ketchup and ridiculously small. Like a fun-sized KitKat. Extremely un-fun, in other words.

I eat the second burger almost as quickly and take two more, before I finally look at Simon.

He isn’t eating. Which I suppose is normal for me, I don’t tend to eat breakfast. But it makes me think again about _why_ he doesn’t need to eat. And the kind of thing he might like to sink his teeth into instead.

He’s slouched against the arm of the sofa in a way I never would. He’s wearing my jeans, but the rest of the clothing is his. The t-shirt I abandoned in the bathroom yesterday, which Bunce must have spelled clean for him, and the tan jacket I bought for him just after we started dating.

He’s _also_ wearing a black cowboy hat, which definitely isn’t mine, and looks ridiculous on me. He must see my eyes (and my eyebrows) rising because he takes it off self-consciously.

“Penny says I have to go out and buy us some more stuff to wear. But it’s sunny. And I didn’t want you to get burnt.”

I suppose that’s supposed to be an explanation. I probably shouldn’t find it as touching as I do. Anyway, the hat is still awful.

“Where in Crowley’s name did you get it?”

“Room service.”

“You asked the vampires who run this hotel to bring you a _hat_?”

Simon shrugs and Shepard grins.

“They said they get it all the time, actually.”

“Why? This isn’t _Texas_.”

Bunce emerges from the bathroom – she frowns as she sees Simon (though presumably not because of the hat).

“Shouldn’t you be shopping?”

Simon shuffles his feet. “I thought Baz might like to go with me.” He gives me a hopeful smile.

I don’t want to go (I had quite enough of that yesterday, thank you. And I’m still not entirely sure I trust myself alone with Simon). But for some reason, I hear myself agreeing. My natural instinct to give Simon Snow whatever he wants taking over from my common sense, presumably.

“Just as long as we can pick up some normal-sized food on the way there.”

“Right.” Simon grins at me. And then frowns as I tug on the floral jacket he wore yesterday. “Baz. You’re going to be too hot. It’s a million degrees out there.”

“All the shops are air-conditioned,” I counter. “I’ll be fine.”

And I want to wear this jacket, if Simon is going to wear his own clothes today. It’s stunning and I haven’t had a chance to actually wear it. I know Simon doesn’t wear florals and I _am_ Simon right now, but I’m depressed. Wearing good clothes makes me feel better. Or at least, less miserable.

So, yes. I’m _going_ to wear the jacket, even if Simon is probably right and I’ll regret it once I get outside. It’s also too snug across Simon’s broad shoulders, and it might get torn if Simon’s wings pop – but I feel Bunce cast an alteration spell on me as Simon pulls the door open.

“Remember your date with Lamb is at two,” she calls after us.

“It’s not a date,” Simon and I say together – him defensively, me irritably.

“Whatever,” Penelope says. “Just be back in time to pick us up before you go. I want to try the Thai food.”

“Best in North America, apparently,” Simon tells me as we walk down the corridor towards the lift.

I nod – although I’m not really paying attention because he’s taken my hand. In public. Where people might be able to see us. He hasn’t done that in months. (Is _this_ a date? If it is, I probably should have done something better with Simon’s hair before I left the bathroom.) (Not that _Simon_ – the man I might be on a date _with_ – would care. But still.)

When we wait for the lift to reach our floor, he pulls my hand up to his mouth. Kisses the back of it.

He’s never done that before _._ Even when we weren’t in public.

And I wish I could just enjoy it – but instead, I’m thinking about how close my fangs are to the pulsepoint in the wrist that is currently mine. How easy it would be to twist my wrist and bring my hand up towards his face. I hoped I’d be able to stop thinking about all of this once I wasn’t a vampire, but it turns out I’m as obsessed as ever. 

Crowley, I hope this shopping trip wasn’t a bad idea. I need something to distract myself from thinking about Simon’s skin. Going out with him to do something that could easily involve one or both of us taking our clothes off _isn’t_ going to accomplish that.

But if I hadn’t said yes, I would have missed this. Simon holding my hand. Simon smiling at me. And perhaps –

Perhaps he _did_ mean it last night when he told Lamb he loved me. It’s not impossible. It doesn’t _feel_ impossible with Simon’s hand in mine.

We leave the hotel lobby together. Simon takes the first left, instead of the right that will take us towards the casinos and the boutiques. I tug him back.

“Wrong way, Snow.”

He makes a face: something a bit like the sneer I practiced in the mirror during second year, but without any of the scorn. A joke of a sneer.

“We’re not really going shopping. I just said that so Penny would let us out.”

I try not to look too disappointed. (Crowley, I hope we’re still going to get a burger.) (We must be. Simon wouldn’t lie about something that important.) 

“Where are we going then?”

Simon grins and tosses me what I assume are Shepard’s car keys.

“Flying.”

**SIMON**

There aren’t many things I like about myself.

I guess I’m pretty good with a sword, although that isn’t as useful now as it has been.

And I’m good at making friends. Which means I must also like whatever it is that makes Baz and Penny like me, even though I’m not entirely sure what that is. (Baz told me once that I was brave and selfless and clever. It could be that, although I don’t think I’m any of those things, really. Brave, maybe.)

I definitely _don’t_ like my wings. They were a mistake – I should’ve vanished them as soon as I got to the Weeping Tower and didn’t need them anymore. And, as Baz and Penny were quick to point out, I never needed the tail.

But there was a lot going on and I didn’t know I’d be stuck with them forever. I wasn’t even sure I was going to survive. That there would be an afterwards to have wings and a tail in.

They get in the way. Knock people over. All my shirts are ruined now (not that I care about clothes really, but I liked all mine more before I had to cut slits in them). And I can’t fit on a normal sofa or a bed without taking up twice as much room as everyone else. And they’re just _weird_. Not normal. Not _human._

But it isn’t bad to be able to fly. It’s wicked, actually. And I only get to fly _because_ I’m like this. Not entirely human, just like Baz.

I’d never really appreciated it back home. Flying. I needed to do it to get away from the Humdrum, and then because I wanted to get away from Penny and Baz and just turn myself in once I realised I _was_ the Humdrum. And since I’ve been stuck like this, I’ve flown a few times just to see what it was like but I was so anxious about anyone seeing that I didn’t stay up for long.

Here, though, we’ve been driving through loads of places where there literally aren’t any people. And it turns out that I love flying. Under my own power, without having to cast anything, without having to _do_ anything except push myself up. The air here is so clear. And it’s warm. I don’t bump into anything when I’m flying, or knock anyone over. I feel strong. And graceful – like Baz is, normally. Like I can do anything, take on anything. Like I’m not a failure for not having my life together.

It sounds like a fucking cliché, but I _do_ feel free.

I’ve been thinking about that since we met Margaret the dragon lady. And that’s what it is. I was right then, even though I wasn’t really thinking about what I was saying.

When I’m flying, I feel like I’m back where I’m supposed to be. Like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing and no one is judging me. And that’s what freedom feels like.

Anyway, when I thought about how I could cheer Baz up, I realised that he’s never done this. He’s never flown, not really (although **Float like a butterfly** is pretty close, but it takes a lot of magic and I’ve only seen him do it once). And he’s never really let go – not that I’ve seen, anyway. He’s also only been me when I’m at my worst. On the ground. Without enough food.

I thought he was going to refuse at first, particularly when I told him he had to take his jacket off and cut the back of his shirt. But now I can see him swooping above me, while I lean against the side of the truck.

We drove about an hour out of town, stopping briefly at a drive-through to get a burger for Baz. There’s no one here. No cameras (I made Baz check with magic first). Just me and him and the sky – which is so blue it almost hurts – and the sun. I’m wearing about three layers of sun-cream, Baz’s sunglasses, and my hat, and I can _still_ feel Baz’s skin tingling.

I might have to go and sit in the truck soon, but I don’t want to stop watching.

I can tell he’s enjoying it even before he tries to land. He’s turning loop-de-loops in the air and laughing. Then all of a sudden, I don’t have to squint against the sun anymore because Baz’s wings are throwing me into shade.

He’s so happy it almost looks _wrong_ on my face. Like I’m looking at myself in the past, only with wings and worse hair. (I definitely need a haircut.)

“That was incredible,” he says and kisses me in a rush. I thought he’d be warm from being in the sun, but the air must have chilled him and he’s cool, like he normally is. He’s grinning. I’m grinning too.

“Yeah,” I say. “You don’t have to stop, you know.”

“Don’t we have to get back?”

I check Baz’s phone – it’s still just midday – and shake my head.

It’s all the permission he needs. He kicks off and I have to shield my eyes against the sun again, but I’m still laughing too. It feels good knowing I did this for him. That I got it right.

“You should come up, Snow,” he calls. “The air’s lovely.”

“Thanks, but I don’t have my wings on me right now,” I shout back.

I take a step back against the truck as Baz drops again so he won’t crash into me. And then I realise what he’s doing as his arms are around my waist. He’s tugging me upwards, his wings – my wings - beating powerfully behind him.

“ _Baz_.”

I can feel my feet lifting off the ground. I’m laughing as I try and wrap my arms around his neck.

“Crowley, I’m heavy,” Baz complains.

“You’re not,” I tell him as my feet touch down again. “I’m just not as strong as you are.”

To prove my point, I duck and catch him around the waist. Hoist him up around my waist as Baz laughs. I must weigh at least a stone more than him, maybe more, but Baz’s muscles are barely straining. I turn in place as Baz pushes the brim of my hat back and then off completely, so he can kiss me from above.

 _This is good,_ I think.

_I’m making him feel good._

I move my mouth down to his chin and he tilts his head back, instinctively, so I can press kisses against his neck. He likes that – usually, in his own body – but suddenly he stiffens in my arms, like he’s remembered he _doesn’t_ like it. (Agatha used to do this to me sometimes. And I do to it Baz.) His hand tightens on my shoulder.

“ _Stop_.”

I do. And because I’m not sure exactly what Baz wants me to stop (everything?), I let him down and step back towards the truck.

Baz is breathing hard. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m sorry too.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He’s still not meeting my eyes. And I don’t know if I should ask him to tell me what _is_ wrong, if it isn’t me. Or whether he just doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Okay,” I say instead. “Do you want to go back?”

Baz shakes his head. “I–” he says. “That is. _Simon_ ––”

 _That_ gets my attention. He still doesn’t use my name that often. I feel the old panic rising (is this him telling me it isn’t going to work out between us?), even though I know what Fiona said and I’m almost sure he isn’t trying to break up with me.

He isn’t.

“If I asked you to bite me,” he says, still not looking at me. “Or – bite _you_ , I suppose. Would you?”

It’s not what I expected. I guess I did say we’d talk about it – last night when we were with Lamb – but I didn’t think we actually _would_ talk about it. (Not this soon, anyway. I imagined we’d have to be back in England. And I’d have to be drunk.) I also didn’t think Baz would want me to bite _him._ But maybe he wants to know what it feels like.

“Yeah,” I say.

He looks surprised – like he’s never considered that maybe I’ve been thinking about it too. Like I wasn’t there when Lamb said we’d both enjoy it, and Baz wouldn’t have to eat rats anymore, and that there were basically no downsides.

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“ _Because_ ,” Baz says. As though that answers everything. Weirdly, I think it does.

“Shepard says I probably won’t get Turned,” I explain and Baz’s eyebrows go down. That means I wasn’t as reassuring as I hoped. “Unless you get vampire blood in the wound. He thinks that’s how it’s done.”

Baz’s lip curls. “Crowley, that’s disgusting.”

I shrug. It doesn’t sound that bad to me. (I mean, it doesn’t sound _great._ But vampires literally survive by eating blood. I’m not sure this is that different). That’s not important right now, though.

“Do you _want_ me to bite you?” I say.

Baz frowns again – and then nods. (I think he might be trembling. He's frightened.)

“Here,” he says. And he holds up one of my wrists.

**BAZ**

What am I doing?

This is definitely _not_ what I should be doing with my afternoon. I was enjoying the flying. I was enjoying Simon kissing me – or at least, I _was_ , until I remembered what he wasn’t doing. I might even have enjoyed the shopping.

But Simon’s agreed.

He’s holding my hand – well, _his_ hand – in both of his. Close to my mouth. (He had to unbutton my shirt cuff for me, roll my sleeve back. Shockingly erotic.) I still can’t look at him, at what we’re doing. So, I don’t see him kiss me, but I _do_ feel it. Cold lips pressing against the thrum of Simon’s heart.

I thought this would be less dramatic than my neck – I don’t have a complex about my wrists, and it’s not nearly as “vampire” – but now, with Simon’s breath tickling my wrist, it still _feels_ pretty fucking dramatic.

Will it hurt? I remember it hurt when I was bitten the first time. But it’s possible I don’t remember it properly. Or that I hurt myself trying to get away. Or that what I remember is actually _fear_ – or the pain of losing my mother.

I hope it doesn’t. Hurt. Not because I can’t stand pain. (I don’t like it, but I can bear it. And I expect it after knowing Simon for nine years.) But I won’t be able to bite Simon later if I know absolutely that he doesn’t like it.

I want it to be good. Although at least, if it’s dreadful, I’ll be able to use this memory as a deterrent whenever I get the urge to jump him in the future. 

But it isn’t dreadful.

There’s a sharp stab of pain as my fangs break through his skin. And then it’s gone. Then it’s just Simon’s lips growing warmer against my skin. Simon’s tongue lapping against my wrist as he murmurs to himself in my voice. It feels like a kiss. But there’s something else there, too. Something flickering in Simon’s nerve-endings. Something that could get stronger – _better_ – if Simon took more.

He pulls back.

And I offer him my other hand.

**SIMON**

This is nice.

I mean – it’s _weird._ Really weird. I’m drinking Baz’s blood, which is actually _my_ blood, but it’s nice. Like the first few cans of cider before you stop tasting it, or the afterglow of a guilt-free wank. A bit of a happy buzz.

My wings are fluttering behind him, wafting cool air over us like a fan. He’s using them to shield me from the sun. And I like that – my wings, my body, protecting him.

Given that they also mean I can fly, I’m even starting to think maybe I should put them on my list of things I _do_ like about myself. Although the tail is still a disaster waiting to happen – I can see it out of the corner of my eye, lashing behind Baz and stirring up dust.

“Again,” he says quietly when I pull away.

He’s so brave. To even try this at all, let alone ask me to do it again. (I can see it still freaks him out – even if he _is_ enjoying it.) ( _Is_ he enjoying it? He’s clutching at my hair. His hair. Scrunching up and then smoothing it down again. And he’s making these sounds, little huffs for breath, like he’s only barely holding it together.)

I push his sleeve back further and bite him again just below the join of my elbow. Draw bright blood into my mouth and swallow until my veins tingle.

Baz whines – and closes his hand more tightly in my hair. “ _Fuck_.”

I think that means he likes it.

Good.

I like doing things to Baz, making him feel good. That’s the easy part. I’ve never had a problem with kissing _him._

I’d kiss him now, if Baz’s fangs weren’t out. Even though my mouth’s full of blood. (Somehow, I don’t think he’d mind.) I’ve only kissed him once since Fiona told me he loved me – and it wasn’t a great kiss. I could tell something was off, even before the bathroom. Like he wasn’t paying attention.

And lots of times Baz and I have kissed, even that time under the stars, I’ve felt him holding back. Like he was worried he’d break me. Or upset me. Which he might have done.

This is different. Baz is still gripping me so tightly. I’ve definitely got his full attention. And I like that too. He’s murmuring my name – my real name. And his knees are giving out from under him, like he’s swooning. Although thinking about it, that could be blood-loss.

“Are you all right?” I ask, pulling back.

“Just a little woozy.” His voice is ragged.

“Do you need to sit down?”

Baz starts to shake his head, but then his legs go again. I grab him under his other elbow to hold him up.

“Possibly,” he concedes.

The back of the truck is still spelled soft from where we slept there two nights ago, so it’s the most obvious place for him to rest. I lift him up over the edge of the truck bed (Baz really is strong – I probably shouldn’t find it quite so hot when I _am_ him) and pull myself up after him. 

**BAZ**

I feel hollowed out. Like I’ve lost more than a few millilitres of blood – more like I’ve lost whatever was weighing me down.

Is this what it’s like to be drunk?

If it is, I’m starting to see why people do this to themselves. Although I don’t remember Simon smiling as much after getting pissed as I must be right now. I only wish I was me and I could see him like this. Blissed out and boneless. I suppose I can, once we change back. If he lets me do this to him again.

I roll onto my side as Simon clambers into truck bed alongside me and raise one of his wings.

“Get in here, Snow. Before the sun permanently disfigures me.”

He gives me a wide – very toothy – grin as he slides in beside me. I can see both my fangs. And in much better detail than I’ve ever looked at them before. (I never look at myself in the mirror when I’m like this. I try not to let anyone else look at me either.) They’re pearly white and sharp as a knife.

I’ve always assumed that when this happens – when I’m at my most vampire, my mouth full of teeth and saliva, my mind fixated on today _not_ being the day I kill my boyfriend – I’d look hideous. Evil. Like a dark thing you’d cross the road to avoid at night.

I don’t.

True, there’s a lot more fang on display than I’m really comfortable with, but the way they push my lower lip down is – actually – inviting. My mouth looks plusher. Softer, in comparison. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes sparkling.

And of course, right now Simon’s looking up at me like I’m his world.

I’ve practiced sneering in the mirror before, trying to look more like my father. I’ve never practiced _this_. I strongly expect it just happens whenever I look at _him_ , but I haven’t seen it.

If this is what Simon see when he looks at me, perhaps I can understand why he isn’t afraid.

Why he thinks I’m alive. (It’s him. It’s because of him.)

**SIMON**

Baz is beautiful. Normally, I mean – when he’s himself. But even now, there’s something luminous about him that must be Baz because it definitely isn’t me. It’s dark here where we are, under my wings, and bright everywhere else, but it’s still Baz who seems to shine.

I can still taste his blood in my mouth (my blood in his mouth?). It’s so sweet. And it doesn’t feel like I’m drunk anymore, I feel more awake than I’ve felt in years. Like everything’s clear.

**BAZ**

Simon reaches up for my face and I let myself lean into it. Let myself duck down towards him – although before our lips meet, I push my weight further forward so that his chin collides with my shoulder instead of my mouth.

“ _Again_ ,” I tell him – and this time, I can definitely feel it. When he bites me. His teeth – my teeth – sliding deep into the muscle of his shoulder, but it’s a good pain. Like pushing yourself through a challenging workout. Simon’s body is clearly trying to compensate, or perhaps it’s something in my fangs. (My venom?) Whatever it is, it’s a hell of an endorphin rush. 

Simon’s wings are flaring behind me. I’m struggling to keep myself propped up over him. So I don’t. I let my body fall until I’m lying on top of Simon, pressing him down into the truck, the same way he pressed down on me two nights ago under the stars. I wrap my arms around his head, holding him in place, kissing his hair – and feel Simon’s hands come up to caress the space between my wings.

I feel like I’m flying again. Like I’m cutting my way through the bright Las Vegas sky, rising on currents of warm air. Only this time Simon is with me.

It’s nothing like the time I was bitten in the nursery.

**SIMON**

I keep waiting to feel trapped.

I’m lying under Baz. I’m biting him – drinking from him – while he makes little breathy noises against my ear and tries not to move too much. We haven’t been this close to … _this_ … in months. Even when we were in the truck the night before the Pukwudgie, I was still the one kissing Baz and I kept my hips to myself. Now he’s definitely kissing _me_. (And … grinding into me. A bit.) 

His blood is flowing faster here, at his throat. I have to keep swallowing, drawing more and more of him into me. It’s making me lightheaded, it’s so fucking delicious.

Baz is on top of me, the weight of my body pressing down into me. He’s clutching at me, holding onto me like he’s not going to let go. That’s made me panic before. Being held, even when I could tell Baz wasn’t getting off on it. (And he _is_ getting off on it now. The noises are more of a giveaway than anything. I know I only sound like that when I’m really out of my mind.)

I should feel trapped. I should be trying to get away.

But Baz is warm – _I’m_ warm. And it’s good. Comforting. Even though we’re in the middle of the desert and Baz’s body should really be warm enough without having fourteen-stone of Simon on top of him.

And his blood is sparkling in my veins.

And I don’t feel trapped at all.

**BAZ**

When I feel like it’s getting too much, I loosen my grip where I’ve been holding him.

“Stop,” I tell him – and he does. Which means I know he still has control. (Which means that _I’ll_ still have control if I try this once I’m back in my own body.)

He pulls out – back – and I slump to the side. Very undignified, but given that I’m still in Simon’s body, perhaps it’s just in character.

I feel exhausted. Happy. Not desperate for something else, something _more_ , like I have some of the times Simon’s kissed me, touched me, and then backed off. Perhaps because I don’t have any real desire to shag myself, even if Simon is in there behind the grey of my eyes. I’m not stupid with Simon-related lust; it’s just physical contact.

I feel satisfied (enough, anyway). My skin thrumming, but not insistently.

Simon curls up next to me, still underneath the protection of his wings.

The fangs are gone. That means he must have drunk enough, that he’s full. It also means that I can kiss him, which I do. Open mouthed and slow.

His tongue tastes like iron – which does nothing for me, like this, but I’m sure would drive me mad if I was back in my own body. It’s still a good kiss. When Simon draws back, I don’t even worry that he’s running away. He probably just needs to breathe.

He doesn’t leave. He’s grinning, biting his lip.

“Do you think we just had sex – but for vampires?” he asks.

I groan and bury my face in his shoulder.

Apparently, I’m still not comfortable talking about how I _am_ a vampire, even after Simon and I have just spent the last twenty minutes getting intimately acquainted with the concept.

Or perhaps it’s just that talking about sex with Simon has only ever been a disaster. And while it’s nice that he can joke about it now – definitely preferable to the panic attacks – it’s not really something I find that funny. Because while I can be patient, while Simon is worth waiting for, there are still nights when the cold showers don’t work. When I’m so frustrated with want that I feel like I’m going to have to gnaw off my own arm.

Then again, until about twenty minutes ago, I felt the same way about biting him, too. And now we’ve definitely crossed that hurdle. And it was – good, I think. Really good. For both of us.

It seems ridiculous – impossible – but apparently all I had to do was ask and Simon was very willing to stick my teeth into me.

“I really want to have sex,” I say wretchedly – and very much into his shoulder, because a large part of me doesn’t want him to hear it, even if I’ve made myself say it. I don’t want to have ruined the moment (we _were_ having a moment). I don’t want to accuse him of letting me down, because he hasn’t. We should be able to take it slowly.

But of course, Simon currently has vampire hearing in addition to my former desire to swill down glasses of the red stuff. So, he does hear it.

He stills. Then his hand threads through my hair.

“Yeah. Me too.”

I may have gone mad. Sunstroke, possibly. Dehydration.

I risk looking at him – one eyebrow raised – and he hastens to clarify.

“I mean, not _now.”_

“Obviously not. Crowley, no.”

I very much don’t want to lose my virginity to myself.

“But after we get home,” Simon says awkwardly. “And switch back. Then, yeah. I think we should try.”

I’m not sure what to say. ( _Thank you?_ Or does that sound desperate?) I settle on something neutral. Something supportive.

“Only if you’re ready.”

“I’m sorry if I’m rubbish,” Simon says in a rush.

I want to tell him that he won’t be, but there’s a statistically high chance our first time _will_ be terrible and I don’t want Simon to feel bad if indeed it is.

“I’m sorry if I’m rubbish too.”

Simon scoffs. “You won’t be. You’re Baz Pitch. And I’ve seen you naked, remember. I know what there is to look forward to.”

I can feel myself blushing, apparently very visibly because Simon laughs.

“One good thing about all this – I can see when you’re embarrassed. Although you really shouldn’t be.”

“Shut up,” I tell him breathlessly. And then I kiss him again (another admittedly bizarre but nonetheless satisfying experience). I wish we were back home _now –_ I really want to be me again.

**SIMON**

Baz and I spend the next … I don’t know how long … kissing in the back of the truck.

It feels good having the sex conversation out in the open. Clearly there’s more to go over. (I understand the theory of how two blokes have sex - basically. But who does what to who really isn’t obvious, like it would be if he was a girl. Or if I was.) (At least, it isn’t obvious to me. Maybe Baz has some ideas.)

But it’s a start. It feels like we can go somewhere from here.

Baz knows what I want (him, always him) and that it’s OK to talk about it again. And that it’s OK to try and do stuff to me, even if I might freak out about it. I know he’ll stop if I don’t like it, or if he doesn’t. But I think I probably _will_ like it.

I like this. What we’re doing here. (I admit, I was even a bit disappointed when Baz agreed that we definitely shouldn’t try anything _now._ I don’t mind waiting, and Merlin knows I’d prefer to see Baz’s face when he comes rather than my own. But it would take some of the pressure off if I knew I was definitely getting it right. I know how to get _myself_ off.)

I’m wondering if I should get the ‘I love you’ conversation out in the open as well, now he’s feeling better. But before I manage it, Baz’s mobile rings.

It’s Penny, of course – Baz makes me answer it – pointing out that we said we’d be back at the hotel at one o’clock before meeting Lamb.

And that it’s a quarter _past_ one now.

Baz bites his lip as I apologise. Penny’s huffing, going on about selfishness and how good the “thum ka noon” is supposed to be.

“Well, how close are you, Simon?” she says when I’ve run out of excuses I’m willing to give her. “Are you in the lobby? Because we could still make it.”

Obviously, we don’t make it.

Even without going back for the others (Penny’s furious – _“What about my Thai food, Simon?”)_ we get to the restaurant almost an hour late. And Lamb clearly had better things to do with his day than wait for us because he’s not here.

Baz is disappointed, I think, although he hides it well. Just grumbles about how Lamb should have given us a business card or something. 

“Maybe vampires don’t need phones,” I suggest.

“What do you think they do, _communicate mind to mind_?” Baz says, although I can tell he’s joking.

“We’ll never know.” 

Once I say it, I realise how insensitive this is (Baz will _literally_ never know about his vampire powers now, because I distracted him with my fangs and my tongue) (well, _his_ fangs and his tongue) but Baz seems to think it’s funny.

“Thank Snakes for that.” He nods towards the restaurant interior. “Do you want to stay and eat?”

“Are you hungry?”

I’m not surprised when Baz nods. It’s been a few hours since he ate those burgers, and since then he’s used a shedload of energy flying. He looks resigned to it now, although he still protests when I order another five dishes on top of the things he’s chosen.

“Do you think there’s something actually _wrong_ with your metabolism?” 

“We can take the leftovers back for Penny to eat,” I say, defensively. (Although what I’m actually hoping is that Baz and I swap back before everything’s gone and I can.)

He stops complaining when the food arrives, though. Crispy egg rolls. Golden tofu. Curry. Heaps of noodles and three plates of sizzling meat that still crackles on hot plates. It smells amazing. Not as good as Baz, but better than anything else I’ve smelled since I got his nose.

Unsurprisingly, I feel his fangs slide into place in my mouth. But I’m not waiting for Baz to eat all the good stuff, even if he is depressed. (He’s already stolen most of the egg rolls.) I just eat around them.

After a while I notice Baz watching me.

“Wha’?” I say through a mouthful of noodles.

Baz makes a face. (He’s always hated my table manners. It must kill him to see himself being this uncouth.)

“Haven’t your …?” He gestures at his mouth. Which is actually my mouth. At my slightly crooked teeth.

“Oh. Yeah.” I swallow and push his upper lip up, so he can see one of the fangs. He looks confused and I grin. “Told you it wasn’t that noticeable.”

It takes him a while to realise. To smile – and when it happens, it’s so lovely it takes my breath away. A classic Baz smile, no bullshit. Almost shy. Hopeful.

The first time I saw it was when he told me that he’d be my boyfriend, if I wanted him to be. I’ve only seen it a few times since. I’ve only made Baz that happy a few times. Even now it’s not really the same, because he’s using my face to do it. 

If Shepard’s right, though, it won’t be long before we’re back in our own bodies again. And I bet I can make him smile like that again.

When I tell him I love him for a start. But I can do better than that.

I can keep making him happy.

**BAZ**

Simon Snow needs a haircut – to the extent that apparently even he’s noticed it.

We left the Lotus of Siam and drove back to the Strip where I persuaded Simon to do the errand Bunce originally dispatched us on and actually buy some more clothes. Rather than force my wings through the narrow aisles, I waited outside and he held things up for me to see through the windows. Mostly hideous things, to be fair, but we managed to find _something_. A dress that will look lovely on Bunce. A suit for me. Half a dozen t-shirts for Simon and a designer tracksuit, which I let him buy because honestly it was just nice to see him taking an interest.

Then, after we’d left Gucci laden with bags, he stopped me outside one of the salons and asked me if I’d be willing to endure the agony of a haircut. An hour of being pampered on his behalf.

I think he genuinely thought he was asking me to do him a favour. When, truthfully, the only thing that could improve an hour under the hands of a skilled haircare professional is getting to stare at Simon while it happens.

 _“You don’t have to wait,”_ I told him as he eyed the magazines in the salon waiting area with obvious distain. _“I’ve got my wand. And you should get the food back to Bunce.”_

_“You just don’t want to be there when she shouts at me.”_

_“That’s an added bonus,”_ I agreed – and then he kissed me, even though the stylist was looking right at us. As though he didn’t give a shit what she thought.

Luckily, she’s either open-minded, or not interested, because she hasn’t mentioned it. We’ve just talked about Simon’s hair. He left no instructions (because he’s a trusting idiot – I could do _anything_ to his hair) (I did very recently; he hated it) but I’ve told her to cut it the way Simon’s always worn it. Short on the sides, leaving as much of the curl as possible. She’s brought me a glass of wine. I don’t usually drink, but we’re on holiday and, apparently, I’ve finally hit the good part.

Anyway, Simon drinks – and Simon kissed me (repeatedly). He told me he wanted to have sex. He bit me. Also, my fangs really _aren’t_ that noticeable when I eat, which means that maybe we can go on an actual date together once we get back to England. I feel like celebrating.

I watch as a new Simon emerges under the stylist’s hands. One who takes care of himself. Who likes himself enough to spend money on something purely for him. (All right, mostly for me. But that’s a good sign too.) The sun’s caught in his hair – it’s more gold than bronze now on top – and I can’t stop looking at it under the salon lights. I want to run my fingers through it – my fingers, not just Simon’s.

( _Two days,_ Shepard said. A couple of days and then this will all wear off. And we’ll be back in England by the end of the week. And then we’ll see.)

I also can’t stop looking at the love-bite just below Simon’s shirt collar. The dark bruise that shows where one of my fangs broke the surface of his skin and sank into his flesh. There are matching bruises on both of his wrists, and I run my fingers over the one on my left, imagining making it rather than wearing it. (If the stylist finds this behaviour odd, she doesn’t comment on _that_ either.) (I suppose, living in the vampire capital, she’s probably seen plenty of young men with vampire bite-marks on their skin. That’s good, I think. It means we probably haven’t miscalculated. People live through this.)

“Just a quick trim of the ends and we're done,” she says and I nod. But it’s already perfect. Simon looks like a new man. I hope he likes it this time.

My phone’s in front of me along with my jacket. Type a quick message to Bunce: _10 minutes._

Her reply comes back swiftly: _We ate all the food._

There’s enough of Simon in me that I feel genuine regret at reading this message. Which is ridiculous. I ate a few hours ago and we ordered extra _for_ Bunce. Anyway, we can order room service. And while all the food _is_ small, it isn’t terrible in large enough quantities. I force myself to type back: _Fine. Hope you enjoyed it._

When I look up, I see someone is sitting taken the chair next to me. We make eye contact through the mirrors in front of both of us. Which is ironic – possibly. Since we’re both vampires and popular culture would have you believe neither of us have reflections.

Lamb.

He’s wearing a three-piece suit today. Tiffany Blue – a match for Simon’s eyes. And he smiles at me in exactly the same way he smiled yesterday. I hate it. (Not the suit; I wish I owned the suit. I hate Lamb’s familiar smile. The way I see his eyes rake over my neck and down to my wrists before they return to my face.)

“Hello again, Baz,” he says, warm and familiar. “I’m afraid I missed you and Simon at the Lotus of Siam. But then I saw you through the window – and here you are.”

My wand is in my jacket. My jacket is arranged over the table in front of me. It’s not that I _couldn’t_ get it if I needed to, but Lamb would definitely see me reaching for it – and I’m fast. That means he is too. The stylist is still behind me, finishing Simon’s hair. Blocking my exit.

I make myself smile at him in the mirror.

“Sorry. We lost track of the time.”

Lamb grins. “Quite all right.” I watch his eyes flick down to my exposed throat. To the fang marks in Simon’s skin. “And no need to say _why_ , either.”

His eyes sparkle and I tug my shirt collar shut, even though it’s pointless - Lamb has clearly seen everything he needs to.

“I didn’t think you were going to take my advice.”

“People don’t usually trust you?” I say lightly.

He laughs. “No, they do.” Then, suddenly, his expression changes – he’s serious, now. “Tell me, Baz. Does he seem different already?”

It’s not what I was expecting (I was expecting more gloating, or at least another innuendo). I’m surprised enough that I ask him an honest question.

“What do you mean?”

“Less grey, perhaps,” Lamb suggests after a moment. “More alive?”

I see the stylist’s eyes flick over towards him – the first crack in a façade of disinterest that even my father would be proud of – but then they’re back to me and she’s smiling brightly.

“All done. I’ll get a mirror for the back.”

As she walks away, I lean closer to Lamb, keeping my voice low. “This was your theory? The one you mentioned yesterday. About the aging.”

He nods. “We need blood to survive, Baz. Humans have always tasted better, but I’m starting to think there’s more to it than that.”

I sit back.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Lamb says – and I think he means it. “I’ve never thought of youthful immortality as optional.”

The stylist returns with the mirror. I nod and tell her my hair looks good because it does, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m thinking about an optional immortality.

If Lamb’s right, I’ll stop ageing if I start drinking Simon’s blood. All the time. What about if I only drink it occasionally? Once a year? Would that just make me look younger, slow the onset of grey hairs? Is it already too late?

Simon _has_ seemed different today. More alive. More like pre-breakdown Simon. But that started _before_ the bite. I’m not sure it’s related.

“How long does it normally take for … one of you … to stop ageing?” I ask.

“Children age until the Thirst takes over,” Lamb says. “They stay children forever. That’s why no one with any decency at all would ever Turn a child.”

I think he means that, too. I’ve never thought of vampires as having principles. I assumed they were all just merciless killers.

“Otherwise, it’s instant,” Lamb continues. “I was thirty-four.”

“When?” I say.

“A long time ago,” Lamb says. “I haven’t aged since. But then, I’ve never not drunk from humans. No one has. I’ve never met anyone doing what Simon’s been doing. I have no idea how long it would take to reverse. If it's even possible.”

My head is spinning. Probably from the wine. Or the information. (If even Lamb doesn’t know, who does? Are there vampires who know more about vampires than this one?) I push my chair out from under the table – and stand. Grab my jacket and close my fingers around my wand. I feel better holding it.

“Too late,” Lamb says as I start towards the counter and the till. “It’s already taken care of it.” 

I’m fairly sure this haircut costs more than Simon’s monthly rent, but I was planning on paying for it with Bunce’s fake money. Adding another business to the list of those we’ve defrauded. I don’t like being grateful to Lamb, but I am. For the money. And for the information.

“Thank you.”

Lamb waves this away, pulls sunglasses from his inside jacket pocket and puts them on. A vampire about to step out into the Las Vegas sunshine. He nods towards the door.

“Let me walk you back to my hotel.”

(The way he says it makes it clear he doesn’t just mean the hotel he’s _staying_ in.)

"All right," I agree.

After all, I’ve got my wand back now. And Lamb and I will be walking together in broad daylight. I think, if he was going to attack me, he’d have done it by now. But if he does, it'll be in front of witnesses and I'll have the advantage. 

I let him push the door open for me. I’m still distracted. The little bell above the door jangles and Simon’s wings burst through the back of my shirt. (It didn’t on the way in; Simon reached up and held it so it wouldn’t.)

The stylist who did my hair yelps. I pull my wand from my jacket, casting **_“There’s nothing to see here”_** (Bunce really needs to work the kinks out of this spell – it’s incredibly inconvenient) and she turns back towards the till, unconcerned.

I sigh and let the door close behind me. I’m expecting Lamb to walk off, having forgotten all about me, but he doesn’t. He’s staring at me. As though he can see the big leathery wings behind my back – even though the spell should have distracted anyone in a thirty-metre radius, including him.

“What the hell just happened?” he says.

I tuck the wings away again. “It was the door. The bell. More importantly, you can still see me?”

The spell worked. I know it worked – I _saw_ the stylist turn away – but Lamb just scoffs.

“ _Baz_. You should know that kind of magic doesn’t work on people like me.”

I didn’t. I know Simon has failed to cast this spell on me before, but I assumed that was just … Simon being Simon. And last night – it didn’t work then either, but I thought it had just worn off. (What other magic doesn’t work on vampires? What else don’t I know?)

Lamb pulls me out of the way of the doorway, so that a young couple who can’t see us can get past. The bell tinkles again.

“So,” he says, steering me back towards the hotel. “You’re a Speaker.”

I can’t deny it. He’s just seen me doing magic. My wand’s still in my hand. At least I have the advantage and I have no qualms about setting Lamb on fire. ( _That_ spell definitely works on vampires.)

“Does Simon know?” Lamb asks.

I nod.

Lamb sighs. He tugs his sunglasses off and rubs his eyes. “This is why he wanted to find the Next Blood, isn’t it? He’s trying to keep up with you.”

That’s not how I would have phrased it, not what I wanted, not why _I’m_ doing it. But …

“Yes,” I say.

“I should have realised. Will he come after you?”

The conversation has turned so quickly that I barely register the threat.

“Excuse me?”

"Not that it matters,” Lamb says as though he hasn't heard me. “And I'm sorry - truly. I like you. I like Simon. But there's a treaty, so."

His eyes are so blue. Ice blue. Cold, not like Simon’s.

I can’t look away. Or speak.

My legs buckle.

The part of my brain used to solving problems and passing tests calmly identifies what’s happening to me as: _falling under a vampire’s thrall_. I thought that was a myth, like mirrors and garlic. But apparently, it’s very real.

It's also very possibly the _last_ thing I’ll ever realise I didn’t know about vampires.

“Thanks for casting that distraction spell earlier,” Lamb says as he scoops me up in his arms, as easily as Simon did earlier. “That’s going to make this next part a lot easier.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sneaky fifth chapter (epilogue/prologue) has arrived, but I'll post it today too. We're at the end of the fic, folks!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this fic since February - I'm sorry it took so long. And thank you also to new readers who are reading the whole thing in one go. 
> 
> I've gone pretty broad-brushstrokes on Braden as a villain. I assume no one minds, but if you're a Braden fan, my apologies. I tried harder with Lamb. I've also used some lines from 'Wayward Son' both here and in the epilogue. And the timing doesn't _quite_ match up with the timing in WS. Just ignore it. They got an earlier flight.
> 
> Final disclaimer: There are still some hanging plot threads... some things that aren't answered. But the fic assumes that AWTWB is coming and will answer them for you, even though I have no intention of writing a sequel. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**BAZ**

I wake up (which means I must have been unconscious at some point) to find myself in the back of a moving vehicle.

It’s even more uncomfortable than waking up in the bath, although the seat I’m lying on is soft enough. It’s the plastic ties around Simon’s wrists and ankles that hurt. The way Simon’s arms are forced behind my back below his wings, which are wrapped in some sort of sheet.

I’m not blindfolded. Or gagged. And I don’t think I’m still under Lamb’s thrall, but for some reason I can’t open my mouth.

I breathe in through my nose and try not to panic.

This isn’t like the coffin.

It’s not even just that Simon knows I’m missing this time, although that helps. (And although Lamb said it didn’t matter if he came for me, it does. And he will – that’s what he does.)

The thing that’s different is that I’m still in Simon’s body – for now – but we’re almost at the end of the two days Shepard promised me. We’re probably going to switch back soon. I don't know what time it is, but the sky’s dark already. I might have three hours. Six. Twelve at the most.

That means that I don’t just have to lie here, hoping Simon Snow is going to rescue me. I need to pay attention. Listen. Look out for landmarks. Try and find out where the fuck we’re going and who’s taken me.

Because if Simon doesn’t rescue me in the next few hours, I won’t need him to.

I’ll have to rescue _him._

**SIMON**

I knock on the door, rather than kick it down. It’s a close thing, though. And, because I’m not in control of Baz’s vampire strength, I somehow knock hard enough to leave a dent. That'll be embarrassing if this isn't the right room. 

I’m not sure whether it is. I’m not even sure if he’ll be in – the receptionists weren’t exactly very forthcoming, Penny had to spell what we did get out of them – but eventually the door opens.

“Simon,” Lamb says. He doesn’t look surprised – probably someone called ahead to let him know I was coming. He doesn’t look that pleased, either. “I didn’t see you at the restaurant, earlier.”

“Baz is missing,” I tell him. Somehow, I manage not to shout it.

Lamb frowns. “Ah,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m not sure—”

“I need your help,” I say, cutting him off. “That’s why I’m here.”

Lamb’s eyebrows rise. ( _Now_ he looks surprised.)

“Please,” I say and he nods, and steps back to let me in.

I’m not exactly delighted to be asking for more help from a vampire, but I don’t know where else to go. The only other magician I know in America is Agatha. Which would be fine – Agatha’s been at my side in worse scrapes than this before, I’d be glad to have her – but when I rang her earlier, she told me her wand was still back home. In England.

_“And anyway, Simon, I did tell Penelope I would be out all weekend.”_

I almost hung up at that point (how could a _festival_ be more important than Baz’s life?) but I managed to stay on the phone long enough to ask her if she knew any _other_ magicians. Which she didn’t. I get the feeling she’s been avoiding magic since she came out here. Almost like she’s choosing to be what I just am. It made me furious. But then everything's making me furious right now. Penny says it's how I act when I don't want to start crying.

 _"Well, have a nice life,"_ I told her. I didn't mean it. 

_“Simon. Don't take this out on me."_ She sighed. _"_ _Look – I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Once you’ve rescued him, you should all come to mine. We can go to the beach.”_

It might be the most confident Agatha’s ever been in me. ( _Once_ you’ve rescued him, not if.) It probably helps that she hasn’t seen me for almost a year. And maybe that I still sound like Baz right now – it’s always been easier to take him seriously.

I tried not to read too much into it. Instead, I told her to have fun (I didn’t mean that either) and hung up.

After Agatha, I thought about Fiona and the Vampire Slayers’ WhatsApp group, but only Baz has her number and wherever he’s gone to (wherever he’s been _taken_ ), he seems to have his phone with him.

Which leaves Lamb.

His room's nice. Not as Dracula-tastic as the rest of the hotel. There’s even a kitchen at one end. With an actual kettle. Lamb uses it to make me tea, while I pace and try and not pull Baz’s hair out. I think it’s the first time I’ve actually believed Lamb might really be British. Tea in a crisis. It’s exactly what Baz would do.

It’s too hot, but I take a long swig anyway. Amazingly, unlike most tea I’ve had in America, it doesn’t taste like utter shit. And Lamb hasn’t turned me away yet, which means I officially feel better than I have done since I realised that Baz hadn’t come back a few hours ago.

The hairdresser remembered me, and she remembered Baz, but she wasn’t sure when he’d left _or_ where he’d gone. They have security cameras outside the shops and she let me see it (eventually, after I’d threatened to force my way into the office) but the video for this afternoon was all fuzzy and I couldn’t see anything.

 _“Guess we need to clean the camera,”_ the hairdresser said, but I knew something was up. Even before I went to the shops either side and demanded their footage too. All of which looked exactly the same – blurry. Wrong. 

I shouldn’t have left him. I know he told me to, I know he had his wand. I know that if I was there, I might not have been able to do anything, and that I might even have been taken as well (which is what Penny keeps telling me). I know that Baz is still alive and we have a chance of getting him back, but I’m just – so scared.

I can’t lose Baz. 

I don’t know what I’ll do without him.

I sink onto Lamb’s posh sofa, clutching onto my remaining tea like a lifeline. (I don’t have to think about what I'll do without Baz. Because we’re going to get him back. I just need to concentrate on the next thing. One thing after another, until Baz is back.) Lamb sits opposite me on one of the chairs.

“You seem very sure I can help you.”

I nod. He raises an eyebrow.

“Why?”

“Well. Two reasons.” I drain the rest of the tea and set it down on the coffee table in front of me. “For a start, my friend Shepard thinks you might be the king of the vampires?”

Lamb doesn’t react. But he doesn’t say, _What a totally ridiculous thing to say,_ either.

“He says the king looks after his own,” I press.

“Baz _isn’t_ one of us,” Lamb points out.

“ _I’m_ the one asking for your help,” I say, rather than answer that. (Penny and I agreed it would be too confusing to tell Lamb the truth. Right now, I’m a vampire. Asking a favour from the Vampire King.)

Lamb considers this. “And the other reason?”

I take a breath. “Baz has been taken by the Next Blood.”

It hurts to say it. To know that Baz is gone and it’s at least partly my fault. Lamb’s frowning.

“You’re at war with them, aren’t you?” I prompt.

Shepard – it turns out – is a mine of information, even about subjects he says he knows nothing about, like vampires. ( _“I’m really glad we added you to the team,”_ Penelope said and he practically glowed with happiness.)

“You’re sure it’s the Next Blood?” Lamb says. “He hasn’t just … wandered off?”

I shake my head. Baz wouldn’t, and there’s the security footage to back me up. But that’s not the only reason I know who’s got him.

“My friend Penny held a séance,” I explain.

“A séance?” Lamb repeats.

“She’s a magician,” I say. “A Speaker.”

Lamb’s eyebrow twitches. “Another one.” When I look curiously at him, he sighs. “The city’s full of them this summer.”

I guess that makes sense, even if we haven’t seen any.

“She’s how I know where Baz is.”

I don’t mention that before we found him, we had a lot of false positives. She started using pictures of Baz and the spell kept saying he was in the hotel. I almost tore the whole place apart before Penny pointed the spell was just tracking Baz’s _body_. (And that therefore it was just telling us where _I_ was.)

 _“This is amazing,”_ Shepard said. _“What?”_ he said as both Penny and I glared at him. _“I’m being sincere. At least you know the spell works.”_

Eventually we found a picture of Baz and me together on Penny’s phone. A nice one. From before I stopped letting people photograph me and stopped going outside. Penny managed to convince the spell to locate _both people_ in the photograph, and two dots appeared on the map. One in the Katherine hotel; the other moving away from Las Vegas towards the coast.

“He’s in a car,” I tell Lamb. “Penny got an image of it from the spell. A car with a Now Next bumper sticker.”

Lamb has been listening with polite interest. Now he makes a disgusted noise. “For Christ’s sake. What kind of fucking secret organisation has _bumper_ stickers?”

“So, we’re right?” I’m trying not to get too excited but it’s not really working. “The Now Next _is_ linked to the Next Blood?”

Lamb hesitates – but then nods.

“It’s their public face. They pretend to be your average pyramid scheme, but – well, you know what they really are.” His face twists again. “They have websites. YouTube videos. Commemorative pins. _Bumper stickers._ They’re so noisy – that’s what makes them dangerous, Simon. They’re drawing attention to us. It threatens everything I’ve built here.”

He’s finally talking. He tells me what he knows about how they started ( _“someone of our kind must have been blackmailed or seduced”)_ and about their leader _(“Braden Bodmer – he’s the one snatching up Speakers and taking them apart to see how they tick.”)_ Yesterday I would’ve had so much to ask him. Right now, there’s only thing that’s important.

“What are they going to do with Baz?”

“I don’t know. Experiment on him, probably. If he’s a Speaker too.”

That means they’re going to keep him alive then. I thought they would – you wouldn’t drive someone across the state just to kill them closer to the sea – but I feel better hearing Lamb confirm it. And worse. ( _Experimenting._ On Baz. I think I’m going to be sick.) (I’m _definitely_ going to kill anyone who touches him.)

“Well, they won’t have much time to learn anything,” I growl.

“Then you’re going after him.”

It’s not a question, but I nod. “Tonight. I came here to ask you to come with us. And any of the other vampires. My friend and I are pretty good at this sort of thing, but I’d feel better if we had some back up. And you said the Next Blood are a threat …”

I trail off because Lamb’s smiling. Shaking his head in the same patronising way the Mage used to when I’d say something he thought was _“hopelessly naïve”._

“You don’t know what these people are capable of. You won’t get anywhere near them, even with magic. It’s suicide. They have guns, guards, archers—”

“And my _boyfriend_.”

I try not to shout it, although I’m not sure why I’m bothering at this point.

“There’ll be others,” Lamb says. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. But you’ll outlive them all. Baz will be nothing but a distant memory in a hundred years. Two hundred years.”

“You’re wrong,” I tell him. He would be, even if I really was a vampire. Even if I lived forever. “And you’re a shitty king.”

Lamb’s smile flickers. When he speaks again his voice is hard, rather than sympathetic.

“I keep my people safe, Simon. I don’t send them into battle on the whim of a child.”

I grit my teeth. “ _You_ said the Next Blood were a threat. They’re a threat to _you._ And you’re just letting them go unchecked. You’re letting them kidnap people in your city.”

“Not _my_ people,” Lamb says.

“Not yet,” I snarl.

I’m not sure what I’m saying, anymore. Why I’m threatening a vampire – the _king_ of the vampires –with something completely out of my control. And why I’m still here when I know Baz needs me and Lamb isn’t going to change his mind. He probably hasn’t changed his mind in decades.

“Thanks for the tea,” I tell him. It’s easy to make it sound exactly like _Fuck you_ in Baz’s voice.

I slam the door behind me, hopefully hard enough to knock some of Lamb’s paintings onto the floor, and head for the lobby. I take the stairs. (There are lifts, but I don’t want to wait for them. And I don’t want to just stand around. Taking the stairs feels like doing _something,_ even if it’s nothing important. And Baz’s muscles barely feel it, even though it’s fifty floors.)

When I get down to the ground, I find Penny and Shepard waiting with our stuff. They’ve already checked out and Penny looks at me hopefully as I emerge from the stairwell.

“Any luck?”

I shake my head. “We’re on our own.”

“No surprises there.”

“I mean, I did say it was a long shot when I came up with the plan,” Shepard says. “But he invited you to eat with him. That’s usually a good sign.”

“It’s a sign he wanted to eat lunch,” Penelope says as I gather up Baz’s bags. “And, in his defence, the food _was_ very good.”

We let ourselves out through the revolving door. At which point, I remember that I gave Shepard’s car keys to Baz several hours ago and never got them back.

“That’s fine,” Penny says when I tell her. “I can hot wire it with magic.”

“Or we could take one of my cars,” Lamb says from behind us.

It scares the shit out of me. (Probably his intention.) For a minute I wonder whether vampires can teleport, but then I realise he must have taken the lift.

I don’t know what made him change his mind. Whether he felt bad for me, or he realised I was right about the Next Blood and how it could easily be him next. I don’t care enough to ask.

Whatever it is, Shepard is delighted. “ _Yes_.” He punches the air. “I knew it! The vampire king takes care of his own.”

“You must be Shepard,” Lamb says wearily.

“At your service.”

“Yet another magician.”

“No, sir. Just a Bleeder.”

Lamb sighs. I get the impression he doesn’t think that’s much better.

“I’ve texted some of our brethren,” he tells me. “They’ll be with us in ten minutes. Assuming that you can wait that long.”

“We can wait,” Penny says. “Can’t we, Simon?”

I shrug (I suppose we _can_ wait – it just doesn’t feel like it.) “I thought you said this was suicide,” I say to Lamb.

He’s put his sunglasses back on, even though it’s getting dark and he doesn’t need them. I can’t see his eyes, but I’m sure the smile he gives me doesn’t reach them.

“Let’s hope I’m wrong, then.”

**BAZ**

After what feels like hours of driving, the car finally stops. The door opens and someone who isn’t the driver drags me out and upright, propping me against the side of the car when I fall. They snip the ties around my ankles.

“Can you walk?”

I’m not sure if I can, but I nod. I’d prefer that to being carried. And I definitely prefer having my legs free, even if I’m not thinking about escaping right now. One of the men watching me has a machine gun. Simon’s wings are still bound. And I think we’re in the middle of the desert. (The point is, I don’t think I’d get far.)

My plan to find out where I’d been taken hasn’t worked as well as I hoped. We haven’t gone through a city, we haven’t seen any landmarks at _all –_ but a few hours ago the driver did take a phone call. I think whoever was on the other end wanted him to hurry up, because he made a lot of excuses before admitting he was about to turn off Route 15. (I assume that will make sense to me once I’m reunited with Google.) (It’s a road, obviously. I’m not an idiot. But a road to _where?_ )

That was about an hour ago. And now I’m walking through the entryway of a house at least as large as the one I grew up in. The size is about the only thing the two places have in common, though.

Pitch Manor is dark and everything that can be carved or decorated is. This place is just – blank. White – or grey really, at this time of night – and empty. Then we take stairs up to a second and then third floor, and the white corridors give way to stainless steel. ( _So, they can be wiped clean,_ I think before wishing I hadn’t). There’s nothing on the walls. No distinguishing features. Barely any furniture in the rooms that have furniture.

I suppose it’s possible it’s not at house at all, although the neighbourhood we drove through earlier looked fairly normal. (Or at least, normal for extremely rich Americans. Lots of columns and palm trees). It could be an office. Or a “facility” – a word which sounds both vague and threatening, and so is probably correct.

No one’s told me who Lamb handed me over to. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t guessed.

They’re vampires. (I can tell from the familiar grey around the eyes and how cold their hands are when they shove me.) Vampires interested in magic. The kind of vampires who would kidnap someone just for being a magician.

Obviously, almost _all_ vampires hate magicians. That might be a motive for kidnap, they might want to torture me. But I think most vampires would just have killed me immediately. Whoever Lamb has given me to wants me alive – and it probably _isn’t_ because of my fabulous conversation skills.

This is the Next Blood HQ. The place Simon and I were trying to get to.

The vampires we crossed a continent to find, hoping they could help get Simon’s magic back, have found me first. While I am Simon. And I can only assume they want to suck all the magic out of me, or something equally horrific.

I’d say it was ironic – if I could still say anything. And if it wasn’t now painfully obvious that this was always the most likely outcome.

After all, how _would_ vampires learn about magic? They’d have to learn it from the source. From magicians. And it’s not as though any magician would ever help them willingly. (Other than me. I might have helped them – if they hadn’t kidnapped me. And if they’d told me they could help Simon first.) (Obviously, I’m _not_ helping them now. Not willingly, anyway.)

It’s obvious this wasn’t a good idea. But now I’m here, perhaps I can do what I set out to do. Find out whatever I can about how the Next Blood are planning to acquire magic and then get the hell out of here. It might still help Simon.

It’s something, at least. A bright side.

(Crowley, a bright side to being kidnapped. This really is nothing like the coffin.)

The guards show me into a room that looks like a spa, but probably isn’t. There’s a large floor-to-ceiling window in the wall looking out over an empty golf course, two reclining chairs, and a hot tub. I’m pushed into one of the two white leather seats. Then the guards cut through the ties on my wrists and then direct me to put my arms along the arms of the chair. I do it and two pieces of curved metal glide upwards from two slots that weren’t there earlier, locking around my wrists. It’s more comfortable than the cable ties – at least there’s a gap between Simon’s skin and the metal – but the fact that this chair is specifically designed to hold people against their will doesn’t feel like a good sign.

Also, Simon’s wings are still out and the back of the chair is too high for me to hook them over the top, even if they weren’t still tied. I wish I’d managed to spell them away before I was caught. (Well, I wish I hadn’t _been_ caught, if I’m wishing for things.) But right now, I’m trying to focus on the positives.

I can still see.

I know Simon is coming for me.

There’s a chance I’ll have information for him when he does.

And no one has bound my hands shut – I can still open and close them at will.

That means whatever the Next Blood know about magicians, they don’t know enough. They must think I’m helpless without my wand and my words. But I’m a Pitch _and_ a Grimm. I can cast fire in my palms without any sort of assistance, verbal or mechanical. I could set this whole fucking room alight. My captors are probably vampires and, for once, I’m _definitely_ not. I’d survive.

I’d do it, if I had anywhere to go. I’d burn them all.

“Wait here,” one of the guards says – as though I have a choice – and leaves me to be watched over by one of the other men (why are they _all_ men?) holding a machine gun.

I think about how quickly he’d turn to ash. (Seconds. And it would be over.) How quickly they all would.

Eventually, the other guard returns, bringing yet another man with him.

This one _isn’t_ holding a machine gun, which I assume means he’s dangerous enough that he doesn’t need one. He’s young. Handsome in a bland, catalogue model kind of way. Pale. ( _Definitely_ a vampire. Someone like this would have a tan if they were human.) Dressed in beige shorts and a polo shirt. A tiny metal brooch in the shape of an ouroboros is pinned just below his collar.

I notice his eyes widen in delight as he takes in Simon’s wings. I also notice he’s holding several clear ziplock bags, one of which has my phone in it. One of which has my _wand._

“Hi Baz, I’m Braden. Sorry about the rude reception, but so excited you could be here.”

He’s talking as though we’re meeting at a party. Instead of in the middle of nowhere as a result of a kidnapping. I give him a tight smile as he sits in the chair opposite me. Swings one of the arms out to make a table-like surface, and sets the bags containing my belongings on top of it.

“Now, obviously you’re _something_ unusual. Just look at the wings – and I’ve got what I’m guessing is your wand here.” He proffers it at me – I don’t respond. “But just because we follow a process here, let’s just check you have the mutation.”

Well, that sounds terrifying. (If I could back away, I absolutely would.) But all that happens is that Braden pulls a small purple crystal from his pocket. It reminds me of Bunce’s ring, but this stone is on a chain, like a necklace. He drops it over Simon’s head.

Nothing happens.

Nothing _obvious_ , anyway. When I look down, the stone is glowing.

“Magic-detecting gem,” Braden explains. “I got it off a warlock. But it only works with close proximity. So, I still have to rely on word of mouth to find you people.”

Good to know. I make a mental note.

“It’s been six months since we had any new data,” he tells me. “But you’re here now, aren’t you?” He leans towards me – and once again I wish I could lean back. “Let’s see what you have to tell us.”

**SIMON**

In the end, we do take Shepard’s truck. Penny doesn’t think it’s a good idea to have to rely on Lamb to get us to the airport afterwards.

 _“So, you’ll trust him as back-up on a vampire-on-vampire rescue mission,_ ” I said. _“But not to drive us an hour across the city in time for a flight we didn’t even pay for.”_

 _“Yeah,_ ” Penny said. “ _Basically. Also, we don’t have a choice on the first one.”_

Shepard’s disappointed, of course. He even offers to let me drive, so that he can ride with Lamb and the other vampires, but Penny isn’t having any of it.

“I’m not losing someone else in the same twenty-four hours!”

I know what she means.

I _do_ drive, though. It helps to have something to focus on – even if it’s tiny, like the stairs. I’m always a nervous wreck before battles, and this isn’t just any battle. It’s a fight for Baz’s life. Maybe for _my_ life. (Who dies if they kill Baz in my body? Both of us?) (Baz would probably like that. He’d say it was poetic. I’d rather both of us lived, though.) Penny keeps checking on her tracking spell. It’s still working. Still telling us Baz is in Rancho Santa Fe. So, we know he’s fine – now. He’s alive. And conscious. But he’s about two hours ahead of us.

And a lot can happen in two hours.

**BAZ**

It doesn’t take long for me to realise that Braden (what kind of a name is _Braden,_ anyway?) is probably insane.

It’s not that he wants to give magic to vampires. (Even though it _is_ a repulsive idea. It’s not illogical. I’d want magic if I didn’t have it.) It’s not even that he wants to be both a vampire and a magician, so that he can take over the world and make everything right. (My family has had its fair share of megalomaniacs – _more_ than its fair share, if I’m being completely honest.)

No. What really pushes Braden out of the _‘power-obsessed but basically sane’_ box and into the one marked _‘complete lunatic’_ is how fucking cheerful he is about all of it. About the prospect that he, Braden, is the solution to most of the world’s problems. At least Simon had the decency to be embarrassed.

“Bio-glue,” he explains when he finally releases my mouth from whatever it is they’ve done to me. (Glued my mouth shut, apparently.). “It corrodes naturally over time – so I just spend up the degradation of your cells. We’re very excited about it. It’s taking the place of stitches in minor surgeries.”

I can tell he expects me to be impressed – with the tool his minions had used to keep me quiet for hours.

“How interesting,” I say. (Because I try not to antagonise maniacs who have me restrained.)

He tells me that he’d never seen anyone like me – like Simon. That’s why he’s allowed me to talk. He wants me to answer his questions. 

“Are you, like, half dragon, or something?”

“It was just a spell that went wrong.”

“Really. Which spell?”

“I don’t know – that’s what went wrong.”

“Maybe we could figure it out,” Braden says. “It has to be something to do with dragons, right? Or flight. Or wings. What about, Red Bull Gives You Wings? That’s got to be a spell. They’ve used that same damn slogan for twenty years.”

“I said I don’t know.”

“But the last girl we had here said spells are things people say a lot. So, it _could_ be.”

I agree – it could be a spell. (It just _isn’t,_ as far I’m aware.) Braden seems happy enough with that.

I don’t ask what happened to the last girl. I don’t think I want to know right now.

“What else do you know about magic?” I ask instead. “If you tell me what you know, I could help you. I could tell you whether it’s true.”

I assume Braden will be as happy to talk about this as he is about everything else. And I’m right.

As he wraps a tourniquet around Simon’s upper arm (clearly about to take enough blood for a decent sample) (or a decent meal), Braden tells me about the wands he’s analysed. The spells he’s recorded. He’s mapped the genomes of three magicians thus far, but the common pattern still eludes him.

“But we know we’re almost there,” he says as he pushes a needle into my arm. “It’s just genetics. It has to be. A mutation of the genes. Like cancer.”

He’s wrong.

I think about telling him that – just to see his face. Just to see his fucking smile drop for a moment (and it would be just a moment, a brief set-back on the way to greatness) as he realises how much time he’s wasted. How many people he’s kidnapped, possibly killed, to get to the wrong conclusion. 

I don’t know what magic is, or where it comes from. That seems odd, now. That we’ve never studied it. That I never asked until Simon needed me to. But magic _is_ … magic. It defies explanation.

I know it runs in families, that until Simon no magician has ever been born to Normal parents. So, I can see why Braden might think it’s genetic. But it’s more than that.

Penelope Bunce thinks I have a soul and that my magic is linked to it. I brushed it off when she said it, but she has a point. I still have magic – the stone around my neck is glowing, proving it to the room.

If magic _was_ simply a mutation of genes, wouldn’t Simon have my magic now, the same way I have his wings?

I should be glad Braden’s wrong. I _am_ glad (Braden Bodmer is not the sort of person who should have magic, if anyone is really the kind of person who _should_ have magic) but it’s hard to feel it over the crush of disappointment.

The Next Blood don’t know anything.

There’s nothing for Simon here.

**SIMON**

They’re keeping Baz in some sort of fortified … _retirement_ village just off the main road, not quite in the desert. The walls are lined with some sort of spikes. There are security cameras _everywhere._ And people patrolling with machine guns. And on the inside – poking up over the spikey, camera-lined walls – palm trees. And a sign pointing to a golf course. It’s actually mad.

Lamb’s car pulls up next to the truck and goes silent. I hear a car door open and shut. A moment later he knocks on the glass next to me. It scares the shit out of me, even though I knew he was probably coming over. I wind down the window.

“So, what’s the plan?” he says quietly.

We’ve been talking about it on the way here. And we’ve agreed on basically the same plan that got us into the Hoover Dam. Same spells on the cameras and the guards. Sneak in carefully and quietly and lift Baz from under everyone’s noses.

Both Penny and Shepard felt more comfortable with _this_ plan, rather than mine – which involved crashing one of Lamb’s cars into the gate as a distraction, scaling the walls, and killing anyone who wouldn’t take me to Baz immediately. (It’d be easier if I had my wings, since I could just fly over, but Baz is strong. He’d make it).

I thought Lamb would like the Hoover Damn plan, too – since I know he doesn’t want his people to die unnecessarily – but when I tell him about it, he just sighs.

“You really don’t know _anything_ about vampires, do you?”

“Keeps taking me by surprise, too,” Shepard says cheerfully. “What don’t we know this time?”

Apparently, vampires can’t be fooled by perception spells. Which I think should put my plan back on the table, but Lamb says that if we’re fast, we don’t need a distraction.

“And we _are_ fast,” he says. “And bulletproof.”

“Not _all_ of us are bulletproof,” Penelope points out.

“Then you’d better be fast.”

Penny huffs, but doesn’t disagree. I know she’s been thinking up magickal-armour spells that will work in America on the way here, she just doesn’t want Lamb (or Shepard) to learn too much about magic. After what’s happened to Baz, I’m not sure I blame her.

Lamb steps back so that the three of us can get out of the truck. It’s dark, so I can’t see exactly how many vampires Lamb’s brought with him, but it’s a lot. At least twenty. Maybe more. They’re all holding pointy bits of wood.

“Want one?” Lamb offers. 

“I’d prefer a sword,” I tell Penny. “Stakes are fine, but a bit short range.” She sighs, but casts one for me. The weight in my hand makes me feel better. More grounded. I heft it up into a guard position.

“If bullets don’t work on vampires, why are all the Next Blood armed with machine guns?” Shepard wants to know. “Why not flamethrowers?”

“They aren’t expecting an attack from someone like me,” Lamb says shortly.

“Why not? It’s not as though it took Simon long to convince you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say sharply. I can’t believe we’re only meters away from Baz, and we’re arguing about the lack of forward planning of his captors. “We’re here now.”

Lamb nods. “Agreed. The only question is if we wait till dawn. They’ll be weaker, then.”

I’m not sure what the time is, but it can’t be much after midnight. Dawn’s still hours away.

“We’re not waiting.”

“All right. Then I assume your mage can blow a hole in this wall?”

“I can talk for myself,” Penny snaps.

“And you can definitely blow a hole in the wall,” I say.

It’s actually one of her specialities. The magickal artefacts are always hidden behind a wall or barrier, or inside a cave. And Penny always gets us inside.

She still looks annoyed. But she doesn’t argue – she knows Baz is in there and we have to get him back. I see her fingers tighten around the stone in her palm and then she raises her hand.

 ** _“Joshua fit the battle of Jericho_**!”

I recognise it. Another spiritual song, like _Amazing Grace_. Another song the slaves sang while dreaming of freedom in American plantations.

It’s a strong spell back in England.

Here, the wall doesn’t stand a chance.

**BAZ**

I feel the explosion, rather than hear it. And even then, I’m not sure I’m right (California has earthquakes, doesn’t it? And this _is_ still California. Probably. I don’t know how long I was unconscious.)

Braden barely reacts. He’s still examining a readout on Simon’s blood on a laptop. Whatever it’s telling him must be interesting because he doesn’t look up. The building shudders again.

“What’s that?” I prompt, even though I’m not sure it’s wise to draw attention to what I hope is my rescue party.

“Nothing important.”

“Are you sure?”

There’s shouting from outside. The distinctive rattle of machine guns. (Definitely _not_ an earthquake.) When I twist my head towards the window, I can see fire breaking out across the golf course. Braden sees it too. He gets up, but then thinks better at it. Taps at his laptop for a moment, before turning it to face me.

“Friends of yours?”

The laptop screen is showing a set of four video feeds from security cameras inside and outside the house. It’s chaos. In all the images, people are either firing guns or ripping pieces out of each other with their bare hands. Everyone’s moving so fast it looks as though the video has been sped up, but it hasn’t. It’s just that everyone fighting is a vampire.

Almost everyone, anyway. Penelope Bunce is running through the frame on the bottom right. And it’s clear she’s had plenty of practice fighting vampires by now. Although I can’t hear her, I _can_ see her spells taking effect. People are crumbling to dust at her feet. The American is right behind her (even though the situation is clearly far too dangerous for anyone without magic or fangs). Presumably he has something to do with the fact that some of the vampires seem to be on our side.

And there, at the very front of the invading army is – well, it’s me.

Me in Simon Snow’s clothes and my hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Me swinging a sword half as long as my body into an army of vampires with machine guns. (Why a _sword,_ Simon? You don’t bring a sword to a gun fight.) (Not that it seems to be holding him back.)

“That’s my boyfriend,” I tell Braden as Simon kicks one of the vampires in the face.

I must sound disgustingly in love. But I don’t think I’ve ever get tired of saying those words. _That’s my boyfriend. Simon Snow._

“Maybe we should think about getting out of here, Braden.” It’s the guy with the machine gun whose been standing here the whole time. (I didn’t realise he could talk.)

“Why?” Braden says. “They’re coming right to us.”

“Yeah, but. We’re not in Reno. This isn’t a Quiet Zone.”

“So?” Braden laughs. “We shouldn’t be afraid of them – we’re the next phase of humanity, for Christ’s sake.”

The guard doesn’t seem convinced. I’m not sure Braden notices. Or cares.

“I should have thought of using a Speaker as bait years ago,” he muses. “Think what we could learn if we had more than one at once.”

“You won’t learn anything if they kill you,” I say.

Braden shakes his head. Pityingly. He squats in front of me.

“Baz - I’m immortal. And soon, with the help of you and your friends, I’m going to be so much more.”

I feel the flames light in my hand before I think to summon them. Something about his confidence, his arrogance. I want to show him how mortal he really is. And if I can take him out now, then whatever plan he comes up with to hurt Simon, will be stopped.

The guard panics. He doesn’t turn his gun on me; he just runs. Braden’s eyes widen (in excitement, I think – what a lunatic), but before I can shove the fireball towards him, everything changes.

Everything.

It’s as though someone’s just changed the channel on a television set.

One moment, I’m staring at Braden’s sneer about to drop, the next I’m in a corridor. People are shouting. Firing guns. There’s a sword in my hand.

“Simon!” someone shouts, and I look around. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Simon.

But they’re not talking to Simon. They’re talking to _me._ A body slams into me, knocking me into the stainless-steel wall. More gunfire. And then actual fire, as Penelope Bunce sets my attacker – and the carpet under him – alight with **_“Burn baby, burn!”_**

My rescuer, then, turns out to be Lamb. Still in the same Tiffany Blue suit from earlier, but now dirtier. Covered in blood that I assume _isn’t_ his.

“Just because we’re bulletproof doesn’t mean you should just stand there and let the bullets hit you,” he scolds.

I bare my teeth and drop the sword. “I’m not Simon,” I tell him, because for the first time in two days I’m not. I can smell the blood on Lamb’s suit and in Penelope’s veins; I can hear the sound of Simon breathing across the other side of the house. I’m a vampire.

“I’m Baz,” I tell Lamb, fisting my hands ( _my_ hands) in the front of his suit and slamming him back into the wall. “And you sold me to the Next Blood."

**SIMON**

Baz isn’t the best with a sword. He’s strong, but his muscles aren’t used the moves. My _mind_ knows how to fight, but being Baz is holding me back. I’d probably have taken down twenty of these fuckers already if I was back in my own body.

And suddenly I _am._ Back in my own body, my wings stuffed awkwardly behind me in a too-small chair. Which I’m apparently locked into.

It doesn’t feel great to be back – I don’t think Baz has eaten for hours and obviously no one likes being tied to a chair – but it doesn’t feel terrible either. It feels fine. Like I could live with this. Like this. And it would be okay. Once I get out of the chair, anyway. But that shouldn’t be too difficult. The cuffs aren’t tight and I learned how to dislocate my thumbs to get out of handcuffs when I was thirteen.

“What just happened?”

It’s a youngish guy in shorts. Braden, I think. The leader of the Next Blood. Shepard Googled him on the way over here, so I’ve seen pictures. But in all the pictures he was smiling. He’s not smiling now.

He grabs at something round my neck and holds it up in front of my face. A purple rock. I’m not sure how it’s relevant to the conversation, if I’m honest.

“Your magic’s gone,” Braden says. “Or have you just broken my detector?”

He must be talking about the stone.

“Oh,” I say. “No. It’s really gone.”

It feels good to say it out loud. To admit it. My magic’s gone.

It’s gone. And that’s fine. I don’t need it.

“I gave it away,” I tell Braden. “I gave it back.”

And then I jerk my head forward and smash my forehead into his face. 

**BAZ**

Bunce and Shepard both try and pull me off Lamb. Then I explain what happened in the salon, and what I heard Braden say about using me as bait, and they back off.

“Pukwudgie, I assume?” he says – casually, as though I’m not still pinning him to the wall by his shoulders.

In fact, he doesn’t seem at all afraid of me, the infuriating bastard. Even when I light a fire in my palm. If anything, that just seems to interest him more.

“So, _you’re_ the magician? And you’re one of us.”

“I’m not one of you.”

I bring the fire closer to his face as Penelope repels another group of vampire guards. “Baz, we need to get to Simon!” she shouts.

I keep my voice low; I know Lamb will hear it. “Give me a reason not to burn you where you stand.”

For the first time, the calm façade flickers.

“You need me. You need my people. To get your boy back.”

“Not if you set us up.”

I’m sure Lamb can feel the heat of the flame on his face by now. It breaks his composure. His eyes dart to my hand and back to my face.

“Yes, I admit, I gave you to Braden,” he says harshly. “I’m _not_ working with him now. You wouldn’t have got this far if I was. I’d have taken you to their lab in the Quiet Zone.”

That makes sense. Braden’s guard essentially confirmed they had another location. Still.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“It was in his best interest,” Shepard says at my elbow. “And I think Simon made him feel guilty.”

“ _Baz_!” Penelope shouts.

“I came to make sure he – or rather _you –_ survived,” Lamb tells me.

I shake my head. “You’re lying.”

“For what it’s worth, I actually believe him,” Shepard says. “There are stories about the king— And we don’t really want the Las Vegas vamps after us as well. But it’s your call, dude.”

“ _Baz_ ,” Penelope shouts again. “Simon?”

She’s right. (I have no idea whether Shepard’s right.) (Or what he’s on about. King of _what_?) I’m myself again, which means that now Simon is the one trapped with Braden the completely insane. Simon is the one who needs rescuing.

I step back and let Lamb go, even though everything in me still wants to burn him. I don’t extinguish the fire.

“I know where Simon is,” I tell the others. “I can get him. Penelope, take Shepard back to the truck in case it _is_ a trap. Lamb – just get out of my sight.”

I’m surprised none of them argue. I suppose I must look like I mean it. (I really fucking mean it.) Bunce just tells me to be careful and Lamb just rolls his eyes. Shepard salutes, and then I’m running deeper into the house while all of them head for the exit.

There are more guards. This time I don’t hold back. The metal-covered walls don’t burn, but the vampire do. And the cream-coloured carpet does.

I leave a trail of ash and flames in my wake, following the same route I was marched down earlier. Running up the stairs, two at a time. I’m fully prepared to set Braden Bodmer alight, too. But when I reach the spa/laboratory where they’re holding Simon, I find him already on the floor. His wrists and ankles bound with cable ties.

Simon Snow is kneeling next to him, checking his pockets.

He looks up as me as I enter (Simon, not Braden. I think Braden’s unconscious). His eyes are bright. The new haircut suits him. And Crowley, the sight of his smile – Simon’s smile – after two days of only looking at my own face is so good that I’ve already forgotten why I’m here. (To rescue Simon, I think. It just doesn’t seem to be necessary.)

“Hey,” he says, still smiling. I have to steady myself against the doorframe.

“Hello yourself, Snow.”

A small pile of possessions (keys, key _cards_ , a capped syringe full of blood) is forming at Simon’s feet.

“There’s bound to be loads of interesting stuff on the laptop,” he tells me. “Do you think you can get the password?”

“Certainly.”

I’m already opening the ziplock bags, removing my wand and my phone. Things I never want to be without again. The laptop is on the same chair. I can definitely get into it with the right spell, but … I’ll need to tell him the truth eventually.

“Simon, they don’t know anything.” I’m still not used to hearing my own voice when I talk. I don’t remember it sounding that uncertain. “About how to get your magic back. I’m sorry.”

Simon stands, stretching. His wings flex.

“Right,” he says. “Well. We always knew that was a possibility.”

He sounds extremely calm about it. As though we haven’t crossed America to get here. As though this wasn’t his only chance. (I think _I’m_ less calm than Simon is right now and it’s not even my magic.)

“They definitely know lots about being vampires, though, don’t they?” he says more softly.

I open my mouth – and shut it again. 

I’m not sure what to say.

Clearly, Simon’s right. I haven’t thought of it before, but presumably Braden approached becoming a vampire with something like the zeal he’s applied to gaining magic. (He’s been unsuccessful, so far, but give him another century to experiment, and I’m not sure what would happen.) He must have taken them apart and put them back together.

Lamb’s vampires have always done things by the book. He could only guess at what’s happened to me. Braden, on the other hand, must have tested the limits of vampire immortality. He’ll know much blood they need to stay alive. To stay young.

He definitely knows how to become one – does he know how to change back?

Would I want to, if he did?

Crowley. Where did that thought come from? Obviously, I _would_ want to. Even it meant I’d never get to bite Simon back. Sink my teeth into the flesh of his throat – still visible from where I left his shirt collar open. I’d want it even if it meant completely changing who I am.

I think.

Actually, I’m not sure I can. Think. Not about this. Not right now anyway. But I do take the laptop, tucking it under my arm. I’ll look at it later. (Probably.)

“Well. Let’s get the hell out of here,” I tell Simon.

He nods. “Right.”

**SIMON**

It’s a good idea. Getting out of here. Baz looks even more handsome than I remember (I think I like him wearing my clothes), and as usual he’s acting ridiculously cool about everything. Like he wasn’t kidnapped and probably experimented on for hours. I always find that hot. 

But it is just an act. I saw it drop when I asked him about the laptop. He showed me how scared he was for a moment. How much it cost him to take it. I love that he did.

I love both versions of him. The Baz who isn’t afraid of anything, and the one who’s fucking terrified.

I want to pull into my arms and tell him it’s all right. Sit with him, holding his hand, as he reads the Next Blood’s files. Kiss him. Finish what we started in the back of the truck earlier today, only as ourselves this time.

But I don’t want to do any of that in front of Braden, even if he is unconscious. Which means – yep. Let’s get out of here. 

The problem is we can’t leave via the door, because my vampire boyfriend has set the rest of the house on fire. Even though _he’s_ the one who’s flammable.

“Right. Well, it seemed a good idea at the time,” Baz says as the two of us stare at the burning corridor behind the door.

It’s definitely non-viable as an escape route. The carpet in this place must be made of wool. Expensive _and_ flammable. (You’d think that _vampires_ would have invested in lino. Maybe a nice marble. Anything that wouldn’t immediately vaporise them if they dropped a cigarette.) (Unless the flammable carpet is supposed to be a defence mechanism, against hostile vampires, like Lamb. But I think that’s giving Braden too much credit. I think he’s just an idiot.)

Fortunately, there’s a window. It’s double glazed, but I know how to break them – I get Baz to do it. (Two layers of reinforced glass isn’t much of a match for vampire footwear.)

“I thought you were the action hero,” he grumbles as he shakes shards of glass off the bottom of his shoe. 

“That’s the old me,” I say.

Baz’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t say anything.

I watch him peer down into the driveway three floors below. Frowning. “I’m not actually sure I have enough magic in me to **float like a butterfly**.”

This I know what to do with.

“You don’t need to.”

I don’t have any magic at all. But I don’t need it to fly. Which means Baz doesn’t need it either.

I shake my wings out and reach out to Baz. “Come here.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Baz says, but he does come closer. “I already know you can’t lift me.”

He yelps in a very un-Baz-like way as I duck, scooping him up under the knees and hefting him into my arms. (I carried Agatha like this for an hour once when we were escaping that Pegasus. And Baz is heavier, but he isn’t _heavy._ He barely eats.)

I grin at him. “All right?”

“I don’t know,” Baz says, a bit breathlessly. “I seem to be trapped in the middle of one of my most persistent fantasies. Which means I may have passed out a while ago.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He swears as I step off the edge of the building and we drop. His arm clutches around my neck, fingers tightening in my shirt. His nose is pressed into my shoulder.

“ _Simon_!” he shouts into my shoulder. “For fuck’s sake, pull _up_.”

So I do.

I flap my wings. Beating them against the current of air. And we rise together. Up and out. Out over the golf course. Back towards Penelope and Shepard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--> Prologue.


	5. Prologue

**BAZ**

We’re leaving for the airport in an hour – I should probably get out of the shower.

It’s just so good to look down and see my own body (not like that) and to be properly clean. I didn’t shower at all yesterday and I only showered once, briefly the day before, before being dragged half-way across the state in the back of a car. Wellbelove doesn’t use the same products as I do, but everything she has is silicon-free and probably expensive. Also, it smells like vanilla, which is very soothing. 

The drive back to her flat (condo? Is that just the American word for flat?) was uneventful. Particularly after the nightmarish flight with Simon away from the Next Blood. (Honestly, it makes me worry for the rest of my fantasies. Are all of them going to turn out the same – not simply disappointing, but actively terrifying? Should I give up on sex now?) (I’m not going to. I’ve only just talked Simon into it.)

Shepard drove. Simon insisted I ride in the cab to protect my skin, even though it was still four in the morning and the sun wasn’t due to rise for hours.

 _“I don’t want you to get hurt again,”_ he said. Which was so thoughtful, I didn’t argue. I was too busy swooning.

He also said he wanted to call Fiona. A ridiculous thing for Simon to say. For a start, nobody _ever_ wants to call Fiona. She calls you – generally when you don’t want her to. And Simon and Fiona hate each other. As far as I know they haven’t spoken since she threatened to set the family lawyers on him, and I had to lie and say there weren’t any. Then talk her out of it.

Anyway, I gave him my phone because he asked for it. And because he came to rescue me. And because I don’t think I could refuse him anything. Ever – but today particularly.

I heard him through the truck window, shouting against the wind. Something about a WhatsApp group, and vampires in somewhere called Rancho Santa Fay. I told Bunce to text him about the other location in Reno (if Fiona’s going to do something about the Next Blood, she might as well as get them all). Simon gave me a thumbs up over the edge of the truck bed.

When I get out of the bathroom, Agatha is showing Penelope Bunce videos of a festival on her phone, while Penelope tries to interest her with tales of our more recent adventures. (Strangely, both stories seem to be about setting people on fire. God bless America.) They both seem happy, even though I’m sure neither of them is listening to what the other is saying. 

Shepard’s out on the balcony, playing with that dog I stole back in London. Agatha seems to have adopted it.

No Simon, but that’s all right. I know where he is. He knocked on the door as I was rinsing Agatha’s conditioner out of my hair, told me to hurry up or I’d miss it. The sand. The sea. The chance to get my feet wet.

(I told him they were already wet – I was in a shower. He told me not to taunt him by talking about things he couldn’t see and Penelope told him to _“Stop shouting about nudity in someone else’s house, Simon.”_ After which he got embarrassed and left.)

“I’m going to get Snow,” I tell Penelope. “Are you ready to leave when I get back?”

“So ready,” she says. “No offence, Agatha, but this country is a nightmare. I don’t know how you stand it.”

“I like it,” Wellbelove says breezily. She flips her hair out of her eyes. “Once you’re gone, I’m going to go surfing, eat tacos and drink boba tea.”

“More horrors!” Penelope says. “Why would you put tapioca in _tea_?”

I leave them to it and head to the beach. 

**SIMON**

I’m sitting out on the sand, with my boots off and my jeans rolled up. It’s still early, so it’s quiet. No one else is on the beach besides a few dog walkers. Agatha says the taco-stands are amazing but they don’t open until later.

I can just hear the waves and the birds. I can hear myself think.

Generally, I try not to do that. But I’m going back to therapy, which means I should probably get used to it.

I sent an email to my therapist this morning (Agatha let me use her computer). She must be an early riser because she’s already replied. I haven’t opened it yet. But it feels good. Reaching out.

I’m thinking about what I’ll tell her when we talk again.

Will she want to talk to me about why I stopped going? Why I chose to come back? (That one’s easier. I’m doing it for Baz. And for Penelope. Not really for me, yet, but who knows? I might get there.) 

We’ve talked before about how I lost my magic. How that made me feel like complete shit and like I didn’t belong anywhere, certainly not with Baz and Penny.

That means I’ll have to tell her that I’ve decided I can live without it. I’m just going to try living. Seeing what that’s like.

It feels like growth.

Or giving up.

But out here, on the beach with warm water lapping at my feet, it feels like the right thing to do.

In fact, I’ve got another idea. Something else that feels right. 

I’m still wearing Braden’s stupid magic-detecting stone. It’s dull, of course. (I do check. Just in case.) I pull it off, over my head, and clench it in my hand. Then I hurl it away from me as far as possible.

It lands with a splash (further away than Baz could throw it, I bet) and disappears.

That’s it then. No more magic.

I still feel fine.

Baz will probably notice the stone is gone when he gets here, but I need to tell him at some point. If he hasn’t already guessed.

I’ve told Penny. (I had to. She was already talking about how just because the Next Blood didn’t work out for me this time, doesn’t mean that nothing will.)

She took it well, I think. It helped that Baz was in the shower, which meant the only people around were Shepard and Agatha.

Agatha: _“I’ve never been happier since I gave up magic.”_

Shepard: _“You know, actually, I’m beginning to think being a Speaker blinds you to the possibilities of other kinds of magic.”_

That set Penny right off. Baz could probably hear her from the bathroom.

_“I beg your pardon?”_

_“Hey, I speak as I find,”_ Shepard said. _“And it’s not like Simon needs magic. The dude’s like a playable character in a video game.”_

I don’t know whether that’s a good thing.

 _“Simon’s always going to be the hero,”_ Agatha said – and the way _she_ said it made it sound like it definitely wasn’t.

I guess it’s something I still have to work out.

I know I’ve felt better since I’ve been out here – is it just because I’ve had something to do? Because I could help? Because I could help Baz? Or because I _was_ Baz?

I think I miss being Baz.

Everything felt a lot easier when I was him. We were able to work everything out. (Well. Some things out. We’ll probably never work _everything_ out.) And I was untouchable again, for a while.

I felt like I could do anything.

But I like getting to look at him again (I got changed this morning and it was profoundly disappointing). I like touching him – and I like how happy he looks when he looks at me. 

That thought makes me wonder where Baz is. Surely, he must be done with his shower now. Even Baz, who has been known to spend far longer in the bathroom than any normal people. Back in Watford, he once had a bath that lasted _the whole day_. (He woke up early to just to make sure I didn’t get in there first. Then kept heating and re-heating the water with magic.) I think he just did that to piss me off, though.

I turn away from the sea and look back towards the road. Baz is sat on a rock, pulling his shoes and socks off. I watch him until he notices me and smiles.

It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.

I wave.

**BAZ**

Simon’s sitting on the beach, like a boy in a music video. White t-shirt, rolled-up jeans. Head full of sun.

He grins up at me as I approach, flicking his tail out of the way so I can sit down next to him. I do. Stretching out my bare feet towards the sea. And then pulling them back as a wave crashes over both of our legs. Drenching the bottom of my trousers.

“Fuck. Snow, this is freezing.”

I mean, it’s warmer than Brighton – but I still wouldn’t put my feet in here for fun.

Simon’s laughing. He doesn’t pull his own feet back. He’s getting soaked.

“That’s the one thing I didn’t like about being you,” he tells me. “Always being cold.”

The one thing.

Not the bloodlust. Or the fangs. Or being dead – or possibly immortal. (I haven’t opened Braden’s laptop yet, but I think I will. Once we’re back in England.)

Not eating other things to stay alive.

 _“That’s everyone,”_ Simon told me once. “ _That’s eating.”_ I suppose he actually meant it.

I rest my head against his shoulder, like he did to me when he was me. Simon doesn’t pull away. He wraps an arm around my waist.

“Did you like being me?”

I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me that.

“Honestly?” His tail has flicked its way into my lap. I take it between my hands, feeling the warmth and weight of it. The strange, dry, lizard skin. “Not really. I mean, it didn’t help that I was kidnapped – again – but it’s quite hard to be you.”

Simon doesn’t answer immediately, but he doesn’t draw away either. Eventually, I risk looking up at him. The hand that isn’t on my waist is over his eyes.

I think – Crowley – I think he’s crying.

I’ve fucked it up. We were getting somewhere – somewhere good. And I’ve ruined it. I haven’t made him cry since we were at school.

“Simon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

He shakes his head. When he moves his hand, I see that he’s smiling as well as crying.

“So, it’s not just that I wasn’t trying hard enough?”

“What? No. Simon—”

“I _am_ going to try harder, though,” Simon says.

Which is good – I want him to - but it’s also wrong. Because I _did_ mean it when I said it was hard. It’s so hard being Simon Snow right now and he’s doing it. He’s making it work.

“I want to be worth your time,” he tells me.

“You are,” I say desperately. I let go of his tail to take his free hand in both of mine. “And I love being _with_ you.”

That isn’t quite right. Not what I actually mean. Instead, it’s more of what I’ve been doing my whole life. _Not_ telling Simon the truth about how I feel because I didn’t want to get hurt. Because I’m weak. Afraid, even if I’m not sure what of. I know the real words are in there.

“Simon—”

He’s not looking at me, not listening. He’s looking back out at the sea.

“I’m going back to therapy, Baz. I know I’m not going to get my magic back. I think I’m going to get a job.”

“Simon.”

“Maybe learn to drive. Maybe join Fiona’s WhatsApp group. I’m really going get better this time, because––”

“ _Simon_.”

I can say it. I’m _going_ to say it.

I look down at where I’m still gripping his hand. My knuckles are white.

“I love you.”

I look up.

Those _were_ the right words, but it wasn’t my voice. It was Simon’s. I half expect to find that we’ve switched again, that I’m back in his body and that’s why the words I wanted to say came from Simon’s lips. But the eyes I’m looking into are Simon’s blue eyes. The face is Simon’s. The freckles. The moles. The lovely, tentative smile.

“Baz—”

I think he might say it again. I want him to, but I kiss him before he can. Because I can’t help myself. He kisses me back, like he meant what he said.

His lips taste like salt – like tears. Or the sea. And the inside of his mouth is warm – Simon’s always so warm.

“I love _you_ ,” I tell him. 

Simon’s eyes are still damp, but he’s smiling. “I don’t know why.”

Crowley, I think _I’m_ crying now.

“That’s because you’re an idiot. Why wouldn’t I?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. You don’t have to be a master of the human psyche to know that Simon Snow has a list of why he hates himself in his head. And now, somehow, I’ve invited him to share it with me.

“Baz. I’m a mess. I don’t know what to do with my life. I _always_ make everything about me—”

“Everything _is_ about you,” I say, interrupting him before he can get going. “For me at least. You’re practically the only thing I’ve ever wanted. And who _does_ know what to do with their life?”

Surely, if this trip has taught us anything, it’s that none of us do.

At least Simon is willing to admit it.

He leans into me, resting his forehead against mine. “Everything’s about you, for me, too.” He shuts his eyes. “That’s why I don’t need my magic anymore. Because I have you.” I smile, because it’s that or start crying again. “ _And_ because Shepard told me I’m still a superhero even though I don’t have magic.”

“I told you that too,” I remind him. “Back at Watford.”

“Yeah,” Simon says. “But _he_ isn’t in love with me.”

I’m laughing. (And, yes, I’m also crying – it’s incredibly overwhelming.) I tilt my chin forward until our lips meet in a strange, damp, messy kiss. 

The Pacific Ocean is trying to soak me, and I think I can hear Penelope Bunce shouting my name, but this is a perfect moment. The one I thought I’d never get. I’m not having Bunce ruin it just because we have a plane to catch.

Simon is more conscientious, though. Or just a better friend.

He lets me go and both of us turn towards Bunce, who is clearly out of breath. She also looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“Penny?” Simon says – he’s on his feet now, we both are. “What is it?”

Her brown eyes are filled with horror. “There’s trouble at Watford. We have to go home - _now_.”

So much for the perfect moment.

And yes, I know I should probably be more alarmed – this is my school we’re talking about, my world. But I’m tired. And emotionally drained. And frankly, it feels like the world could have given us more of a break after what happened today.

But I suppose that’s life.

Next to me, I think Simon’s still in shock. I nudge him with my elbow.

“What were you saying about being a superhero?” Simon raises his eyebrows. I lean into whatever it is I’m doing. “The World of Mages needs you, Chosen One. Will you answer its call?”

“Oh, piss off,” Simon says, but he’s laughing.

“Only you can save us.”

“You could help!”

“ _Guys_?” Penelope says. “Are you taking this seriously?”

I try and school my face back into the proper expression of dignified worry.

“Yes. Sorry, Bunce. I’ll get my shoes.”

“Thank you.”

“Baz really is right though,” Simon says as we pick our way back over the beach. “Whatever it is, I think we can handle it.”

And he smiles at me again as he takes my hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read lots of delete scenes over on my Tumblr.](https://captain-aralias.tumblr.com/post/631617325644267520/today-i-have-done-very-very-little-i-certainly)


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